Destination Zealand
by Imaginos1892
Summary: I have always thought The Chrysalids by John Wyndham was an outstanding book, right up to the end. There are a couple of things I disagreed with about the ending. This is my attempt at an alternate ending that replaces the Zealanders' impossible Leonardo da Vinci helicopter with a more practical aircraft. It's getting longer than I expected, and may run 10 to 12 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Foreword**

The last two chapters of this otherwise outstanding story have always bothered me. The Zealanders could not have flown to Labrador in a helicopter.

It's not really John Wyndham's fault. He wasn't an aeronautical engineer, and we know far more about aircraft today than they did in 1955. We know that it's physically impossible to build a chemical-fueled helicopter that can fly 20,000 miles on one tank of gas. After a certain point, fuel consumption increases exponentially with distance, and 20,000 miles is far beyond what is even remotely possible. The Leonardo da Vinci rotor was also…a big mistake.

The story needs an aircraft that can fly 10,000 miles in 5 days, stop in the middle of a howling wilderness with no air-traffic control and no runway, pick up passengers and then fly home, all without refueling. It should not require the Zealanders to have anything beyond 1990's technology. Definitely no anti-gravity!

Fortunately, we do know of such an aircraft: a zeppelin.

Here is my alternate ending of The Chrysalids, picking up at the end of the Fringes battle and the Zealanders' arrival in a zeppelin instead of a helicopter.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

Suddenly he stiffened. His bow came up like a flash, bent to its full. He loosed. The shaft took my father in the left of his chest. He jerked, and fell back on Sheba's hindquarters. Then he slithered off sideways and dropped to the ground, his right foot still caught in the stirrup.

The spider-man threw down his bow, and turned. With a scoop of his long arms he snatched up Sophie, and began to run. His spindly legs had not made more than three prodigious strides when a couple of arrows took him simultaneously in the back and side, and he fell.

Sophie struggled to her feet and began to run on by herself. An arrow pierced right through her upper arm, but she kept on, with it lodged there. Then another took her in the back of the neck. She dropped in mid-stride, and her body slid along in the dust…

Petra had not seen it happen. She was looking all round, with a bewildered expression.

" _What's that?_ " she asked. " _What's that queer noise?_ "

The Zealand woman replied, " _Don't be frightened. We're coming. It's all right. Stay just where you are_."

I could hear the noise now. A strange multi-toned droning sound, gradually swelling. One could not place it; it seemed to be filling everywhere, emanating from nowhere.

More men were coming out of the woods into the clearing, most of them on horseback. Many of them I recognized, men I had known all my life, all joined together now to hunt us down. Most of the Fringes people had bolted into the caves, and were shooting a little more effectively from their cover.

Suddenly one of the horsemen shouted and pointed upwards.

I looked up, too. The droning sound had grown louder, and now faded to a whisper as a vast silver-blue shape began gliding into view high above us. Within seconds everyone in sight had stopped whatever they were doing to stare at it. The droning rose again and the huge… _thing_ slowed and turned, until it finally stopped directly above the clearing as the sound faded to a low hum.

Several of the horsemen shook free of their daze and shot arrows towards it, but they fell back far short of the target, presenting more of a hazard to their fellows than to the floating apparition. Others unslung their guns and began the laborious task of reloading them on horseback.

" _We are here. We see you. Take cover, and do not move_." The Zealand woman's mind-voice startled us.

Something was happening high above our heads. Our view of the great blue shape was no longer clear. A kind of fine mist had appeared in the air below it, shot with quick iridescent flashes, slowly descending towards the clearing, and us.

The Fringes folk took advantage of the distraction to shoot a volley of arrows from their caves, felling a few men and horses, rousing the posse from their bemusement to return fire. The few who had gotten their guns reloaded now turned them on the more obvious threat. We heard shouts and screams from below us, following the shots.

The mist had settled below the treetops now, and as I looked down again I saw a few glistening threads, like cobwebs, drifting past the mouth of Sophie's cave. Then more and more of them, giving sudden gleams as they twisted in the air and caught the light.

The shooting fell off again. All over the clearing the invaders lowered their bows and guns and stared upwards. They goggled incredulously, then those on the left jumped to their feet with shouts of alarm, and turned to run. Over on the right the horses pranced with fright, whinnied, and began to bolt in all directions. In a few seconds the whole place was in chaos. Fleeing men caromed into one another, panic-stricken horses trampled through the flimsy shacks, and tripped on the guy-ropes of tents flinging their riders headlong.

I sought for Michael.

" _Here!_ " I told him. " _This way. Come along over here_."

" _Coming_ ," he told me.

I spotted him then, just getting to his feet beside a fallen horse that was kicking out violently. He looked up towards our cave, found us, and waved a hand. He turned to glance up at the long shape in the sky, which was lower than it had been. The main body of mist was settling into the clearing proper, still glinting with rainbows.

" _Coming_ ," repeated Michael.

He turned towards us and started. Then he paused and picked at something on his arm. His hand stayed there. " _Queer_ ," he told us. " _Like a cobweb, but sticky. I can't get my hand_ …" His thought suddenly became panicky. " _It's stuck. I can't move it!_ "

The Zealand woman came in, coolly advising, " _Don't struggle. You'll exhaust yourself. Lie down if you can. Keep calm. Don't move. Just wait. Keep your back on the ground so that it can't get **around** you_."

I saw Michael obey her instructions, though his thoughts were by no means confident. Suddenly, I realized that all over the clearing men were clawing at themselves, trying to get the stuff off, but where their hands touched it they stuck. They were struggling with it like flies in treacle, and all the time more strands were floating down on them. Most of them fought with it for a few seconds and then tried to run for shelter in the trees. They'd take about three steps before their feet stuck together, and they pitched on to the ground. The threads already lying there trapped them further. More threads fell lightly down on them as they struggled and thrashed about until presently they could struggle no more. The horses were no better off. I saw one back into a small bush. When it moved forward it tore the bush out by the roots. The bush swung round and touched the other hind leg. The legs became inseparable. The horse fell over and lay kicking — for a while.

A descending strand drifted across the back of my own hand. I told Rosalind and Petra to get back into the cave. I looked at the strand, not daring to touch it with my other hand. I turned the hand over slowly and carefully, and tried to scrape the stuff off on the rock. I was not careful enough. The movement brought the strand, and other strands, looping slowly towards me, and my hand was glued to the rock.

"Here they are," Petra cried, in words and thoughts together.

I looked up to see the gleaming object, now floating some ten yards above the treetops, with some sort of boxlike affair descending from a square opening in its bottom on four long ropes. The droning sound rose again for a moment, then faded. A few seconds later the remaining filaments in the clearing were pushed down, and a waft of air carried them outwards.

I saw some of the strands in front of the cave-mouth hesitate, undulate, and then come drifting inwards. Involuntarily I closed my eyes. There was a light gossamer touch on my face. When I tried to open my eyes again I found I could not.

It needs a lot of resolution to lie perfectly still while you feel more and more sticky strands falling with a feathery, tickling touch across your face and hands; and still more when you begin to feel those which landed first press on your skin like fine cords and tug gently at it.

I caught Michael wondering with some alarm if this was not a trick, and whether he might not have been better off if he had tried to run for it. Before I could reply the Zealand woman came in reassuring us again, telling us to keep calm and have patience. Rosalind emphasized that to Petra.

" _Has it got you, too?_ " I asked her.

" _Yes_ ," she sent. " _That wind, or whatever it was, blew it right into the cave — Petra, darling, you heard what she said. You must try to keep still_."

The droning noise was gone now, and the succeeding silence was shocking. There were a few half-muffled calls and smothered sounds, but little more. I understood the reasons for that. Strands had fallen across my own mouth. I could not have opened it to call out if I wanted to.

The waiting seemed interminable. My skin crawled under the touch of the stuff, and the pull of it was becoming painful.

The Zealand woman inquired, " _Michael? — Keep counting to guide me to you_."

Michael started counting, in figure-shapes. They were steady until the one and the two of his twelve wavered and dissolved into a pattern of relief and thankfulness. In the silence that had now fallen I could hear him say in words, "They're in that cave there, that one."

There was a creak from the ladder, a gritting of its poles against the ledge, and presently a slight hissing noise. A dampness fell on my face and hands, accompanied by a strong, sharp smell, and the skin began to lose its puckered feeling. I tried to open my eyes again; they resisted, but gave slowly. There was a sticky feeling about the lids as I raised them.

Close in front of me, standing on the upper rungs of the ladder and leaning inwards, was a figure entirely hidden in a shiny white suit. There were still filaments leisurely adrift in the air, but when they fell on the headpiece or shoulders of the white suit they did not stick. They slithered off and wafted gently on their downward way. I could see nothing of the suit's wearer but a pair of eyes looking at me through small, transparent windows. In a white gloved hand was a metal bottle, with a fine spray hissing from it.

" _Turn over_ ," came the woman's thought.

I turned, and she played the spray up and down the front of my clothes. Then she climbed the last few rungs, stepped over me where I lay, and made her way toward Rosalind and Petra at the back of the cave, spraying as she went.

Michael's head and shoulders appeared above the sill. He, too, was bedewed with spray, and the few vagrant strands that settled on him lay glistening for a moment before they dissolved. I sat up and looked past him.

The dark blue box stood in the clearing, still connected to the — sky-ship? — by what proved on closer observation to be two ropes ascending from each top corner. Double doors in one side of it stood open, revealing it to hold one more suited figure and nothing else. Two others were standing guard, holding guns like none I had ever seen before.

The clearing itself looked as if a fantastic number of spiders had spun there with all their might and main. The place was festooned with threads, appearing more white than glossy now; it took a moment or two of feeling something was wrong with them before one perceived that they failed to move in the breeze as webs would. And not only they, but everything, was motionless, petrified.

The forms of a number of men, and horses, too, were scattered among the shacks. They were as unmoving as the rest.

A sudden sharp cracking came from the right. I looked over there, just in time to see a young tree break off a foot from the ground, and fall. Then another movement caught the corner of my eye — a bush slowly leaning over. Its roots came out of the ground as I watched. Another bush moved. A shack crumpled in on itself and collapsed, and another…it was uncanny, and alarming…

Back in the cave there was a sigh of relief from Rosalind. I got up and went to her, with Michael following. Petra announced in a subdued, somewhat expostulatory tone, "That was _very_ horrid."

Her eyes dwelt reprovingly and curiously on the white-suited figure. The woman made a few final, all-encompassing passes with her spray, then pulled off her gloves and lifted back her hood. She regarded us. We frankly stared at her.

Her eyes were large, with irises more brown than green, and fringed with long, deep-gold lashes. Her nose was straight, but her nostrils curved with the perfection of a sculpture. Her mouth was perhaps, a little wide; the chin beneath it was rounded, but not soft. Her hair was just a little darker than Rosalind's, and, astonishingly in a woman, it was short. Cut off nearly level with her jaw.

But more than anything it was the lightness of her face that made us stare. It was not pallor, it was simply fairness, like new cream, and with cheeks that might have been dusted with pink petals. There was scarcely a line in its smoothness, it seemed all new and perfect, as if neither wind nor rain had ever touched her. It was hard to believe that any real, living person could look like that, so untouched, so unflawed.

For she was no girl in her first tender blossoming, unmistakably she was a woman — thirty, perhaps; one could not tell. She was sure of herself, with a serenity of confidence which made Rosalind's self-reliance seem almost bravado. She took us in, and then fixed her attention upon Petra. She smiled at her, with just a glimpse of perfect, white teeth.

There was an immensely complex pattern which compounded pleasure, satisfaction, achievement, relief, approval, and most surprisingly to me, a touch of something very like awe. The intermixture was subtle far beyond Petra's grasp, but enough of it reached her to give her an unwonted, wide-eyed seriousness for some seconds as she looked up into the woman's eyes, as if she knew in some way, without understanding how or why, that this was one of the cardinal moments in her life.

Then, after a few moments, her expression relaxed. She smiled and chuckled. Evidently something was passing between them, but it was of a quality, or on a level, that did not reach me at all. I caught Rosalind's eye, but she simply shook her head, and watched.

The Zealand woman bent down and picked Petra up. They looked closely into one another's faces. Petra raised her hand and tentatively touched the woman's face, as if to assure herself that it was real. The Zealand woman laughed, kissed her cheek, and put her down again. She shook her head slowly, as if she were not quite believing.

"It was worthwhile," she said, in words, but words so curiously pronounced that I scarcely understood them at first. "Yes. Certainly, it was worthwhile!"

She slipped into thought-forms, much easier to follow than her words.

" _It was not simple to get permission to come. Such an immense distance, more than twice as far as any of us has been before. Such a great risk, and cost, to send the ship, and good fortune that it was available. They could scarcely believe it would be worth it. But it will be_ …" She looked at Petra again, wonderingly. " _At her age, and untrained — yet she can throw a thought half-way round the world!_ " She shook her head once more, as if still unable to believe it entirely.

Then she turned to me. " _She has still a great deal to learn, but we will give her the best teachers, and then, one day, she will be teaching them_."

She stood beside Sophie's bed of twigs and skins. Against the thrown-back white hood, her beautiful head looked as though it were framed by a halo. She studied each of us thoughtfully in turn, and seemed satisfied. She nodded. " _With one another's help, you have managed to get quite a long way, too; but you'll find that there is a lot more we can teach you_." She took hold of Petra's hand. " _Well, as you've no possessions to collect, and there's nothing to delay us, we might as well leave now_."

"For Waknuk?" Michael asked in words.

It was as much a statement as a question, and she checked her first step towards the cave entrance, to look at him inquiringly.

"There is still Rachel," he explained. "And Sally and Katherine, and Mark. They could still be alive."

The Zealand woman considered. " _We can't. I'm sorry, but the risk is too great_."

"It wouldn't take long. It isn't far — not for your sky ship," Michael insisted.

She shook her head regretfully. " _It's not just the distance. We would have to cross their territory, find our people, extract them, and then escape with the whole countryside alerted to our presence. This child_ ," she waved Petra's hand back and forth, " _is the only reason we were permitted to come here. I cannot authorize such a reckless undertaking, risk her life, and all of ours, for — I'm sorry — four merely ordinary people, three of whom are most likely dead_."

There was a pause while we appreciated the situation. She had made it clear enough, and she stood motionless, holding Petra's hand, waiting sympathetically and patiently for us to accept the necessity.

In the pause one became aware of the uncanniness of the silence all about us. There was not a sound to be heard now. Not a movement. Even the leaves on the trees were unable to rustle. A sudden shock of realization jerked a question from Rosalind. "They're not — they're not all — dead? I didn't understand. I thought—"

" _Yes_ ," the Zealand woman sent to us, simply. " _They're all dead. The plastic threads contract as they dry. A man who struggles and entangles himself soon becomes unconscious and suffocates. It is more merciful than your arrows and spears_."

Rosalind shivered. Perhaps I did, too. There was an unnerving quality about it — something quite different from the fatal issue of a man-to-man fight, or from the casualty roll of an ordinary battle. We were puzzled, too, by the Zealand woman, for there was almost no feeling in her thoughts over what had been done here.

Rosalind was almost in tears, unable to speak in words. " _But…you just — you killed them **all** , like it was nothing. Like…drowning rats. Don't you feel **anything?**_ "

The woman looked at her coolly, then opened her mind to us and showed us the depth of her sorrow and pity. " _Of course we do. Of course this killing weighs on us. We value all life; even theirs_." Rosalind shuddered and leaned heavily against me, as I leaned against her. The Zealand woman closed off her mind and continued in her oddly-accented words, "But never doubt that we value our own lives most of all. We kill when we must, in self-defense; they would kill us simply for existing, and being unlike them."

None of us could argue with that. _Accursed is the Mutant!_ was drilled into them from birth, and if my father was more zealous than most, still they had all come here committed to killing or capturing us, to dragging us back in chains to be interrogated, tortured and probably killed in the pursuit of any others like us. Even so, Rosalind still looked, and felt, doubtful.

The Zealand woman spoke directly to her, forcefully. "We are at war, and this _was_ necessary. Even their crude weapons are a threat to our ship. This is the largest zeppelin we have, and the only one capable of making this journey. If it is damaged or destroyed, we could all be killed; even if we survived the crash we would be stranded here for years, and our prospects for survival would be doubtful at best. We chose not to allow them that chance. They would not hesitate to kill us, by any means, if they got an opportunity."

Rosalind nodded, reluctantly, though I could still feel her drawing comfort from me. The Zealand woman nodded towards the cave mouth. " _Let's be on our way, before more of those people come here_."

Michael still looked obstinate, but he led the way to the rickety ladder. We climbed down cautiously, one by one, past caves choked with white webbing, covering still forms. The Zealand woman must have cleared the ladder on her way up. She followed Rosalind, carefully watching Petra, ready to catch her if she fell. We all reached the bottom safely and walked to the box, webs crunching faintly under our feet.

Michael stopped a yard from it and turned to face us. "I'm not going with you."

Rosalind understood instantly. "You're going back to Rachel. But, Michael—"

"She's quite _alone_ ," said Michael. "Would you leave David alone there, or would he leave you?"

There was no answer to that. The Zealand woman looked at him, baffled. " _Then you would both be alone. What future can there be for you in this place? If Sally or Katherine still live, they may yet be forced to give up your names. You would get no warning before they took you_."

"We're not staying there," Michael said with great determination. "We're going to Zealand."

He had succeeded in surprising her. " _It would take you more than a week to reach her, and return. We can't stay here that long, and we can't send the zeppelin back. Not just for you_."

Michael grimaced but said only, "I know."

The Zealand woman was watching him with sympathy and admiration in her eyes, but she shook her head gently. " _It is a very long way — and there are huge expanses of awful, impassable country in between_ ," she informed him. " _We only made it with great difficulty_."

"That is a problem," he acknowledged. "But the world is round, so there must be another way to get there."

" _There is no guarantee of that_ ," she warned. " _Even if there is another route, it would be long and hard — and certainly dangerous_."

"No more dangerous than to stay in Waknuk. Waiting for the day when we, or our children, would be found out, and hunted down…" He regarded her, with a daunting purpose in his eyes. "Besides, how could we stay now, knowing that there is a place for people like us, that there is somewhere to go? Knowing makes all the difference. Knowing that we're not just pointless freaks — a few bewildered Deviations hoping to save their own skins. It's the difference between just trying to keep alive, and having something to live for."

The Zealand woman gazed intently at him for a long time. " _Give me a minute_."

Her eyes stayed on him, but she was no longer looking at him. She was suddenly in communication with someone on board the ship overhead, at a speed and on a level where I could make almost nothing of it. Another joined in, and another, until more than a dozen 'voices' were buzzing away in our heads. Rosalind and I looked at each other uncertainly. If this was an example of what we still had to learn…the prospect was intimidating.

The conference-buzz ended. Her eyes focused outward again. " _We have reached a consensus. We will take you to Rachel, and bring her with us. We will try to find Katherine and Sally as well_."

Now it was Michael's turn to be baffled. "I thought…"

" _I could not authorize such a diversion on my own_ ," she explained. " _All of us, together, can. We were already troubled by the thought of leaving anyone behind, but considered the risk too great. Your convictions have made…a notable impression upon us_." She gestured to the box and said in words, "Get into the lift. We will leave this place, and begin making our plans."

Michael nodded and turned around. I led Rosalind into the 'lift' after him, and the Zealand woman followed me, leading Petra. The two guards looked around the clearing one last time and stepped inside, pulling the doors shut behind them. One dropped a locking bar across them while the woman sent a short thought we didn't catch. Both guards slung their outlandish guns over their shoulders and started unfastening their hoods.

The lift's interior was about six feet square and seven high; not crowded for eight people, but there wasn't room for many more. The Zealand woman directed us to use some handholds attached to the walls, and we found out why when it tilted and swayed, accompanied by tearing noises from under our feet. Small windows in all three walls, and the doors, held our attention. The clearing dropped away below us, buried under its shroud of webbing. The man who'd stayed in the lift sent out a rather plaintive thought, and was answered with amusement.

The Zealand woman caught our puzzled feelings. " _He's hoping he won't get tasked with cleaning the bottom of the lift_."

We all chuckled and Michael said, "I wouldn't mind doing it, if somebody would show me how. I'd like to get a closer look at it."

The man, a freckle-faced young fellow with blue eyes and short reddish hair, grinned cheerfully. "Be glad ta show ya, mate! Name's 'Arvey." He stuck out a hand, and Michael shook it.

The guards were a dark-haired woman with gray eyes and a brown-haired, brown-eyed man. They both looked at us curiously, but politely, and refrained from showering us with questions. We all resumed looking out the windows.

We were above the trees now and could see quite a distance across the broken Fringes woodlands. It really didn't look all that Deviant from here. We felt and heard a bump, then saw something dark slide down and cover the windows. A few seconds later the door windows were uncovered and we could see a floor dropping down outside. There was a thump as the lift stopped moving, then two clunks. The man raised the bar and they both opened the doors and stepped out.

The blonde woman exited next, still holding Petra's hand. " _Follow me. We'll get you settled, give you a chance to wash up, and then meet in about an hour_." We got a sense of uncomfortable amusement from her. " _I don't mean to be rude, but I'm afraid you're all a little ripe_."

* * *

Her name was Yvonne. She led us down a long hallway, past door after door on both sides. This 'zeppelin' was enormous on the inside, bigger than any building I had ever seen. After a minute or so something began to feel quite odd inside my ears, and sounds became strangely muffled. As I wondered what was happening, Petra tugged at Yvonne's hand. "My ears feel funny."

She let out a short burst of apology and embarrassment and told us, " _Oh, how silly of me. Of course, you would never have experienced it. I'm sorry_." She started to explain about air pressure, and altitude, and equalizing the middle ear, then stopped herself and simply showed us how to swallow, yawn and work our jaws to relieve the sensations. She told us this would happen whenever the zeppelin rose or descended more than a short distance. " _When we descend, you may need to pinch your nose and blow, very carefully, to equalize the pressure, then fine-tune it. You should get the hang of it in a short time_."

Yvonne showed us to four small but comfortable rooms along the ship's 'port' side — the left side, to us — and the 'head' (bathroom) across the 'passageway' (hall). Petra immediately came to my room, and we were quickly joined by Rosalind. We heard all manner of odd noises around us, and gazed out the large window as the ground fell away below. I was beginning to wonder if we could see all the way to Waknuk when there was a knock behind me. We all turned to see Michael standing in the doorway.

"Petra," he asked, "do you think you could reach Rachel for me?"

Petra put out the inquiry, in her forceful way. "Yes. She's there. She wants to know what's happening," she told him.

"Say first that whatever she may hear, we're all alive and quite all right."

"Yes," said Petra presently. "She understands that."

"Now I want you tell her this," Michael went on, carefully. "She is to go on being brave — and very careful — and in a little time, a day or two, perhaps, we shall come and fetch her away. Will you tell her that?"

Petra made the relay energetically, but quite faithfully, and then sat waiting for the response. A small frown gradually appeared.

"Oh dear," she said, with a touch of disgust. "She's gone all muddled up and crying again. She does seem to cry an awful lot, that girl, doesn't she? I don't see why. Her behind-thinks aren't miserable at all this time; it's sort of happy-crying. Isn't that silly?"

We all smiled, and Michael added, "Tell her that we'll talk to her again very soon. We might need her to do some things, but she has to be very quiet and careful."

Petra nodded, and half-blinded us one more time. "She says okay."

Michael and I insisted that Petra and Rosalind use the 'head' first, but they came back a minute later asking where the bathtub might be. Our queries prompted Yvonne to send us all a quick rundown on Shower, Shipboard, Operation And Use Of. We were encountering all sorts of new things.

The Zealanders had made arrangements for the people they set out to rescue, and we all found clothing that fit well enough. Rosalind and Petra were uncomfortable in dresses shorter than they were accustomed to, and without the crosses they had worn all their lives, but when Michael told us that clinging to the symbols of that repressive society we had left behind made no sense, we had to agree. They would adjust, in time. Yvonne told us how to take our old clothes to the ship's laundry; after our showers we too noticed how…malodorous they had become.

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

Yeah, the Zealanders' lift kind of looks like a Tardis. It has to be a box, and it has to be some color, so why not blue?


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"We have decided to rescue Rachel, Katherine, Sally and Mark, if possible." Yvonne opened the meeting. The four of us, and almost twenty Zealanders, all sat in soft, padded chairs at a long table in a large room, some thirty feet long and twelve across, with a row of wide windows in one wall showing the distant ground creeping past us at a barely perceptible speed. The zeppelin was 'conserving energy' by drifting with the wind, whatever that meant, at a height of two thousand 'meters'.

Our hosts were a varied lot. Their hair and eyes were mostly of familiar colors — except for one woman whose hair was an eye-watering hue of purple that had me wondering what bizarre Deviation could cause such a thing, until Rosalind giggled and whispered to me that she had probably just dyed it — but their skin ranged from Yvonne's near-white to a dark brown that was too even to be a suntan. I looked at the purple-haired woman again and speculated whether she might harbor some obscure Deviation that made her _want_ to dye her hair such a lurid color.

There were nearly as many women as men. We were surprised to see that only two of the women wore dresses, and those scandalously short; the rest wore blouses, and long or short pants. Women sometimes wore long pants in Labrador, but only for riding, or work that was near-impossible in a dress. These women looked like they wore pants most or all of the time. It was plain that they weren't just here to listen and obey, either. They looked alert and confident, and the men clearly regarded them with respect. It made sense; it was much harder to pretend that women were inferior to men when one could _feel_ that they were not.

None of them, men or women, wore crosses on their clothing.

Yvonne wasn't exactly in command of the zeppelin, or the expedition, but organizing it had been her idea, and the others looked to her for certain aspects of leadership and planning. We were still trying to figure out how the Zealanders organized their society. It seemed that some people naturally took the lead in some areas while different people had authority in other spheres. It was why she was unable to commit the group to a rescue mission on her own, and also why she was now determined to give her best efforts to its success despite the fact that she still had grave misgivings about the wisdom of going so far into enemy territory.

'Consensus' did not mean 'unanimous' — several people had argued against the rescue mission, but most had been strongly enough in favor to carry the decision. The dissenters were now included in planning the mission, mostly playing devil's advocate, seeking out flaws and forcing us to address them. They didn't harbor any resentment at being overruled; apparently this was just how things worked.

"We'll use words," Yvonne continued. "If we use thought-speech, we're likely to forget, and leave our new friends behind. They are entirely self-taught, and have not discovered a lot of the techniques we take for granted." There were nods and murmurs of acceptance around the table. She looked at a tall man with red hair and blue eyes who strongly resembled Harvey. "Steven, what is the ship's status?"

"Good, but we're about bingo on fuel and the batteries are only up to eleven percent." His accent was less understandable than Yvonne's, but more so than Harvey's. "Solar arrays're putting out one-point-four megawatts, about all you can expect at this latitude. Good thing it's high summer here or we'd get a lot less. If we don't use the motors any more today, we should be up to sixty-five, maybe seventy-five percent by nightfall."

She frowned. "We will need the motors. The wind's pushing us north-east, and we don't want to be seen anywhere near our objective before we move in. We don't want to drop low enough to tether here, either."

Steven nodded reluctantly. "Awright, if we use just enough for station-keeping we should get up to forty-five percent or so. If the wind doesn't get much higher."

"Will that be enough for a hundred and forty kilometer trip tonight, and back?"

He nodded. "Hate to run the batteries down again before we get a full charge, but lives are at stake. Keep 'er under sixty and we'll be okay. We've got enough fuel left to run the engines forty, maybe fifty minutes if we need to."

All of that went in one ear and out the other. I had no idea what 'batteries' or 'megawatts' might be, and while most of the other words were at least familiar, I still didn't get much sense out of them. The Zealanders must have seen, and felt, our confusion because Steven said, "Don't worry too much about the details just now. What matters is, we can get to your people tonight, pick 'em up and fly away from this place."

"If nothing goes wrong." This objection came from a woman who looked a little older than Yvonne, her brown hair cut even shorter, sitting across from us, wearing a blouse and pants made of heavy fabric in a strangely mottled pattern of green, brown and gray. She looked at us steadily, with possibly just a hint of disapproval. She had to be one of those who opposed the rescue mission, and after a few seconds she confirmed my suspicions. "I'm still not convinced this is a good idea, but since we're doing it, I'll do what I can to keep it from becoming a complete disaster."

Yvonne chuckled. "I never doubted you, Helga. What are your thoughts on this?"

"Reconnaissance." She looked around the table, and received several answering nods. "We have to take a look over the target area before we commit. We can't afford to dismiss them as just a bunch of ignorant hicks; they took two by surprise, and came within minutes of getting three more."

Rosalind's hand found mine as Steven grumbled, "Too bad we didn't bring an IR scanner."

Helga half-grinned at him. "You boys and your toys. We'll just have to do it the old-school way." She widened her eyes as if staring _really hard_ at something, and got a general round of chuckles.

Yvonne said, "I'd like to have IR, and Night Vision, and a few other things, but we didn't know we'd need them. We'll just have to make do."

A dark-haired, youngish man two places down from Michael said grimly, "With our biggest zeppelin and forty automatic rifles, I think we can 'make do' just fine."

Yvonne sighed. "Yes, Gary, if it comes to that. I'd much rather sneak in, get our people out and be long gone before they ever know we were there."

Helga gave him a hard look. "That's my plan, too. If that's a problem, you can stay on the ship."

He gave in. "No, you're right. We don't want to endanger the people we're trying to rescue. Sly and sneaky it is."

Helga held his eyes for a few more seconds, then nodded, satisfied. Yvonne went on, "We don't want to be complacent, but we shouldn't jump at shadows, either. They _are_ ignorant, they've never faced organized, trained opponents, and they won't be expecting us."

She paused, and when nobody disagreed she continued, "Our greatest advantage is their lack of communication. They can't move messages any faster than they can travel on a horse, so even if someone is already racing back with the news of what happened this afternoon, they can't reach Waknuk before tomorrow night. We will be there, and gone, tonight."

Helga spoke again. "The moon will set just before midnight; I want our team on the ground at one A.M. I'd have preferred two o'clock, but while summer at this latitude helps us charge our batteries, it makes for awful short nights. The sky will begin to lighten before three A.M. and we want to be at least fifty kilometers away by then."

Yvonne nodded and said, "Next, we have to know where we're going. Petra, sweetie, could you ask Rachel where they've got Katherine and Sally?"

The query blazed out, followed by a long silence. "She says everybody knows that. They're at the Inspector's house."

Michael nodded. "I know where that is." He hesitated, then asked her, "Has she heard anything about Mark?"

Petra sent the question, and a few seconds later she said uncertainly, "She says no, but…it feels funny, and her behind-thinks are hurting. Do you think she's lying?"

I was at a loss, but Michael said quickly, "I think she's just really worried. Tell her to listen for news, but not ask any questions, and we'll talk to her later."

We endured another blast. "She says okay."

Michael looked at us dourly, unwilling to say, or send, anything around Petra. He didn't have to; we knew what he was thinking.

Helga looked at us. "I'd like to know more about their guns. We should have grabbed a couple before we pulled out. How good are they?"

Michael said, "What do you want to know?"

Helga grinned and sent, " _Everything, of course_." She and Michael rapidly exchanged thought-shapes about numbers, sizes and mechanisms that got hard to follow.

Petra stopped trying, turned to Yvonne, and asked, "When's supper?"

She smiled. "Quite soon. What was that you said, about 'behind-thinks'?"

The girl looked troubled. "I see things people think, behind, sometimes. Things they don't mean to say. David says I should pretend I don't see them, but I can't help it."

Yvonne got a look, much like the one she had on first meeting my little sister. "If you can't help it, you shouldn't worry about it. It's not your fault." She gave us a very…significant look. Like we had something _big_ to talk about, away from Petra.

Michael and Helga's exchange wound down, Helga nodding thoughtfully.

Yvonne told Michael, "We'll need a map of the area around this Inspector's house."

Michael said, "I've only been there a few times, but I'll do my best."

She smiled reassuringly. "There are a couple of people who can help you remember it clearly, and draw it accurately. We'll get together after supper."

As soon as she finished, Helga said, "Their guns are pretty primitive, Yvonne. Near as I can tell, they're fourteen millimeter black-powder flintlock muskets. There's only one approved design, so they're as close to identical as hand-made guns can get. They've discovered bullet patches, but that's about it. Their metallurgy is not very good, so their powder charges are four, maybe four and a half grams. My best estimate is that they shoot a sixteen-gram round lead ball at no more than four hundred and fifty meters per second. That would put their maximum vertical range at between sixteen and seventeen hundred meters. We should be safe from them above two thousand. They also have single- and double-barrel shotguns, about twenty millimeter bore, but those can only reach a few hundred meters. No cannons or artillery. Their muskets seem to be the only real threat."

Yvonne nodded. "Thank you. That puts my mind more at ease." She looked around the table. "I think we're about done for now, unless somebody has something else." When nobody spoke up, she nodded again. "Gary, would you take Petra to supper? I'd like to talk to her friends for another minute."

People started standing up, Gary smiled and held his hand out to Petra and she took it, a little uncertain. He told her, "Hi, Petra. I think we're having chicken stew for supper, and chocolate cake for dessert. Does that sound good?"

They started walking towards the door as she asked, "I know what a cake is, but what's chocolate?"

He laughed. "Something you're _really_ going to like!"

I watched them go, concerned. Yvonne noticed. "Yes, David?"

I said, awkwardly, "Isn't he…?"

"A little dark, a little strange, a little scary?" she filled in, then shifted to thought-shapes. " _Yes, he is. He's got…reasons. But he would never, **never** hurt a little girl, or allow her to be hurt. The sky would fall into the sea before that could happen. She's perfectly safe with him_." Her absolute conviction came through clearly, and reassured me more than her deliberate thoughts.

Helga said, "What was it you wanted to tell us, without Petra?"

"It's about those 'behind-thinks' of hers." She clearly took the subject very seriously. "How long has she been demonstrating that ability? Is it a recent development?"

"Just last night," I replied, then went on, "At least, that's the first time she mentioned it. We've only been teaching her to use thought-shapes for a couple of weeks."

"So it's possible she always had it, just never noticed until yesterday," she mused. After several seconds she returned her attention to me. "I'm not sure if she's seeing unconscious thoughts, or if she's a true empath, but either way it's another rare ability. Combined with her incredible power…that little girl is more important than all of us, _and_ the zeppelin. I _can't_ risk her, or the ship we need to get her home. Everybody on the rescue mission has to understand that."

Helga looked at her speculatively. "It's still on? You're not going to scrub it and bug out?"

Yvonne shook her head. "We're committed now, and we gave our word. We'll give this rescue our best try, but if anything goes wrong we may have to leave you to make your own way to a safe extraction site. Safe for the zeppelin, not just for you. If you can't…"

Helga chuckled. "If it all drops in the crapper, us grunts will be left holding the shit end of the stick. When has it ever been any different? We'll get it done, never fear. _And_ we'll come back. You won't get rid of me that easy!"

Yvonne laughed with her. "No, you're going to live forever because you're too cranky to die." Her humor faded as she turned to Michael. "But about Petra's latest behind-think…you're afraid something happened to Mark, and Rachel's trying to keep it from her."

He nodded, and I said, "We all are." as Rosalind took my hand again.

Michael added, "We'll have to wait until we get closer, and don't need to go through Petra."

She asked quietly, "What about your other two friends?"

Michael replied grimly, "We know Katherine was tortured. We don't know what happened to Sally; we picked up a few very strange things from her two days ago, then nothing. We don't even know if they're alive." Rosalind squeezed my hand as he looked at Yvonne challengingly. "But as long as there's any chance, we can't abandon them!"

"I understand that now," she acknowledged. "You've all been so isolated, and so close together, that you've become part of each other, far more than usual. I was wrong to demand that you abandon a part of yourself. We'll do our best to rescue your friends."

Rosalind said, "Thank you, Yvonne." while Michael and I were at rather a loss for words. We nodded our agreement.

She gave us a somewhat perfunctory "You're welcome," then stood and turned towards the door. "It's definitely supper-time now. I suspect you're more than ready for a meal cooked in a real kitchen!"

We got out of our chairs and followed her through the ship's long hallways, arriving at last at the end of a line of people. We moved along steadily, and a few others stepped in behind us. We passed through a doorway into an enormous room, at least fifty feet square. Most of it was filled with long tables, hard-looking metal chairs fastened to the floor, and at least thirty people eating their suppers. I could feel a faint background humming in my head, but it was too fast and unfamiliar for me to get any sense out of it. I could feel that Rosalind and Michael were aware of it too.

Yvonne led us to a colorful object that proved to be a stack of trays. She took a yellow one off the top, I got a blue one, Rosalind picked up an orange one, Michael got red and Helga, green. They were all the same, about a foot wide by a foot and a half long with raised edges about an inch high. They were made of some slightly flexible substance that was not metal, or wood, or rock, or anything else I had ever seen before. Michael examined his closely, weighed it in his hands, tapped on it, and finally looked at Helga with a wordless question-shape.

She said, "It's made out of plastic."

I dropped mine in panic. I felt again those deadly strands, pulling at my skin…

I could feel Rosalind and Michael's less extreme disquiet as the slap and clatter of my tray hitting the floor echoed through the room. Everybody looked our way, Yvonne and Helga both started laughing — although the feelings I got from them were understanding rather than mocking.

Yvonne reassured me, " _It's a completely different kind of plastic, perfectly safe to handle_." She switched to words. "It's called high-density polyethylene. It's tough and easy to clean, so it's a good material for making food trays."

I sheepishly picked up my alarming plastic tray as Rosalind and I sent each other soothing thoughts. Michael chuckled nervously. "As long as they don't start wrapping around us, I guess it's okay."

We set our trays on a pair of metal rails and slid them sideways as Yvonne led us through picking up shiny metal forks, spoons and dull knives with rounded tips, crystal-clear glass cups, glossy white porcelain plates and bowls, and squares of rough brownish paper. All these things took up most of the space on our trays.

None of us had ever imagined a meal being served in such a manner. In my father's house, the men sat down to a table already set with dishes and silverware. The womenfolk brought in plates and bowls and platters of food, filled the cups and sat down themselves. We all folded our hands and bowed our heads while my father intoned a lengthy prayer, thanking God for our bounty, calling for blessings on our family, our workers and their families, our house, our fields and livestock, our District, and the whole of Labrador, followed by a series of long-winded admonitions about brimstone and eternal damnation if we ever failed in our Purity — all while we sat there smelling the food with our bellies growling. He'd claimed it was good for our souls.

I wondered how his was doing, wherever it had gone. I had a strong suspicion he was finding that his new accommodations were _not at all_ to his liking…

We followed Yvonne in picking up salads, hot rolls and butter, and filling our glasses with milk, tea or several other beverages. Yvonne took something cloudy and yellow, I tried something clear and green, and Rosalind tasted a little bit of milk that was colored brown, then grinned widely and filled her glass to the top. We each took a small plate holding a square of dark-brown cake with white frosting.

Next was a serious-looking blond man in a spotless white apron, presiding over a kettle that filled the air with savory smells. One by one we handed him our bowls, and he passed them back filled with generous servings of thick stew. There were potatoes, cabbage, several kinds of familiar and unfamiliar vegetables, and plenty of chunks of meat.

We picked up our now-heavy trays and followed Yvonne to a table end-on to a wide span of windows, where Petra sat chattering away at Gary, so engrossed that she didn't notice us until we sat down. When she did, it was with a mighty flash and bang inside our skulls, followed by metallic clatters and wide-spread protests as people dropped their silverware and clutched at their heads.

Petra immediately looked guilty, and called out, "I'm sorry, everybody."

There was a general grumble of acceptance, then people cautiously resumed eating. I caught a fleeting snatch of disgruntled thought, "… _live grenade, only this one keeps going off over and over_ …" I didn't know what a 'grenade' was, but couldn't really blame the anonymous complainer.

Rosalind took her hand down from her forehead and said, kindly but sternly, "Petra, dear, you really _must_ learn to control yourself. It _hurts_ when you do that, and now there are dozens of people around us who can feel it."

Petra shrunk down into herself a little more and mumbled, "I'm really sorry, Rosalind. I'll try."

Gary looked at us blandly. "Try not to be too hard on her. She didn't mean to do it, and I'm sure she'll learn better. We'll all do our best to help her."

I was ready to snap something along the lines of 'Keep your nose out of our family business!' but I saw Petra look up at him, a little less glum already, and remembered how cheerfully she'd been prattling at him before she rang our bells. Almost as if the last four days had never happened — and even her outburst, painful as it was for us, had been a happy one. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, as Yvonne clearly wanted us to.

Michael used thought-shapes to say emphatically, " _She has to learn, and fast. I almost chopped my leg off from one of her brain-shots, and Katherine nearly doused herself with boiling water. There must be things on this zeppelin that could cause even worse disasters if somebody gets knocked in the head at the wrong time_."

Yvonne put in, " _There are. I can think of dozens of things without even trying_." She looked at Gary. " _The battery rooms, for example? As you said, we'll all have to help her_."

" _I'll do anything I can for her_ ," Gary declared, and I could feel his determination, and a kind of iron integrity behind it.

I felt better about him, and joked, " _Well, it was good of you to let her bend your ear, chattering on like that. None of us have been able to relax much these last few days, and it's been pretty hard on her_."

" _It does me good to see such a happy little girl_." I felt a kind of darkness pass through him as he added, " _And get her out of a horrible place like that_."

I said dismissively, " _It wasn't so bad; we were only in the Fringes for two days_."

" _I don't mean the Fringes_." He gave me a penetrating look. " _You were running **to** the Fringes, weren't you? But what were you running **from?**_ "

He had me there. The Fringes was refuge and safety compared to what had driven us out of Waknuk. Whatever they'd done to Katherine, they wouldn't hesitate to do the same, and worse, to Rosalind, and even Petra. I began to understand why Yvonne hadn't hesitated to bury all those not-so-innocent souls under her deadly plastic webs.

Similar thoughts must have occurred to Rosalind. She asked Yvonne, " _Are you going to kill more people tonight?_ "

I looked at Petra. She was asking Gary whether one of the strange vegetables in her bowl was a Deviation; that should keep her occupied for a while.

" _If they make it necessary_ ," Yvonne replied, and we could feel her adamant resolve. " _Our mission is not to kill Norms, but we will kill as many as we have to_."

She gripped my arm hard, and her mind-voice wailed, " _There has to be another way!_ "

Yvonne regarded her sadly for a long moment. " _Our mission is to bring Rachel, Sally, Katherine and Mark aboard this ship and take them back to Zealand with us, without losing any people in the doing. Are we agreed on that?_ "

She nodded, with an affirmative thought-shape.

" _Will those people allow us to do that, or will they try to stop us?_ "

Rosalind admitted reluctantly, " _They'll try to stop us if they can_."

" _How can we prevent them from stopping us? Can we persuade them? Can we reason with them? If we tell them we're not what they think we are, not a threat to them, will they believe us?_ "

She shook her head. " _No. They'd never listen to a bunch of Mutants_."

" _Can we buy their lives? Is there something they value, that they would accept in exchange?_ "

Michael answered this time. " _Only a very few, and you can't trust them_." He snorted. " _Actually, you **can** trust them — to stick a knife in your back!_"

She spread her hands helplessly. " _Now that we have ruled out negotiation and trade, what option remains to us but force?_ " She raised her eyebrows, widened her eyes and looked a challenge at us. " _Can you think of any other approach?_ " _  
_

Rosalind shook her head in grudging acquiescence.

Yvonne regarded her for a few seconds before she went on, " _Will any degree of force less than killing them be sufficient? Can we threaten them, or frighten them badly enough, to ensure that they will leave us alone?_ "

I thought of my father and answered, " _No. They think they're doing God's Will. They'll always be more afraid of failing, or the men that would punish them for failing, than of you_." I put my hand over Rosalind's. " _The most devout won't believe that they **can** fail against the Devil's minions_."

Yvonne heard me out, then turned her attention back to Rosalind. " _It is not pleasant to kill any creature, but to pretend that one can live without doing so is self-deception_." She gestured to Rosalind's stew-bowl. " _There has to be meat in the dish, there have to be vegetables forbidden to flower, seeds forbidden to germinate; even the cycles of microbes must be sacrificed for us to continue our cycles. It is neither shameful nor shocking that it should be so. It is simply a part of the great revolving wheel of natural economy. And just as we have to keep ourselves alive in these ways, so, too, we have to preserve our species against others that wish to destroy it — or else fail in our trust_."

" _The unhappy Fringes people were condemned through no act of their own to a life of squalor and misery — there could be no future for them. As for those who condemned them — well, that, too, is the way of it. There have been lords of life before, you know. Did you ever hear of the great lizards? When the time came for them to be superseded they had to pass away_."

" _Sometime there will come a day when we ourselves shall have to give place to a new thing. Very certainly we shall struggle against the inevitable just as these remnants of the Old People do. We shall try with all our strength to grind it back into the earth from which it is emerging, for treachery to one's own species must always seem a crime. We shall force it to prove itself, and when it does, we shall go; as, by the same process, these are going_."

" _In loyalty to their kind they cannot tolerate our rise; in loyalty to our kind, we cannot tolerate their obstruction_."

" _If the process shocks you, it is because you have not been able to stand off and, knowing what you are, see what a difference in **kind** must mean. Your minds are confused by your ties and your upbringing, you are still half-thinking of them as the same kind as yourselves. That is why you are shocked. And that is why they have you at a disadvantage, for they are not confused. They are alert, corporately aware of danger to their species. They can see quite well that if it is to survive they have not only to preserve it from deterioration, but they must protect it from the even more serious threat of the superior variant_."

" _For ours **is** a superior variant, and we are only just beginning. We are able to think-together and understand one another as they never could; we are beginning to understand how to assemble and apply the composite team-mind to a problem — and where may **that** not take us one day? We are not shut away into individual cages from which we can reach out only with inadequate words. Understanding one another, we do not need laws which treat living forms as though they were as indistinguishable as bricks; we could never commit the enormity of imagining that we could mint ourselves into equality and identity, like stamped coins; we do not mechanistically attempt to hammer ourselves into geometrical patterns of society, or policy; we are not dogmatists teaching God how He should have ordered the world_."

" _The essential quality of life is living; the essential quality of living is change; change is evolution; and we are part of it_."

" _The static, the enemy of change, is the enemy of life, and therefore our implacable enemy. If you still feel shocked, or doubtful, just consider some of the things that these people, who have taught you to think of them as your fellows, have done. I know little about your lives, but the pattern scarcely varies wherever a pocket of the older species is trying to preserve itself. And consider, too, what they intended to do to you, and why…_ "

I found her rhetorical style somewhat overwhelming, but, in general, I was able to follow her line of thought. I did not have the power of detachment that could allow me to think of myself as another species — nor am I sure that I have it yet. In my thinking we were still no more than some unhappy minor Deviations. I could feel that Rosalind was equally at a loss, but Michael was gazing at her keenly, with a sense of enlightenment, as if he had just grasped some great mystery of the universe.

Yvonne shook her head slightly, chuckled, and said in words, "Well. Look at me, running on while our food gets cold. Still, do you understand that we may have to kill people tonight? We won't do it lightly, or without a good reason, but if we need to, we will."

Rosalind's hand tightened on my arm again, and she nodded slightly. "Yes, Ma'am," she said in a subdued voice.

Yvonne affected a slightly horrified expression. "Don't 'Ma'am' me, Rosalind! You'll make me feel old!"

That won her a small, shaky smile. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Oh, you wicked girl! A little help, here? I'm being Ma'am'd!"

The remaining tension broke as we all laughed and resumed eating. After a few minutes I asked Helga, "What do we have to do, to get ready for the mission?"

Helga started to answer, but Yvonne said flatly, "You're not going."

I couldn't believe she'd said that. "The hell I'm not! I have to go!"

Yvonne looked at me intently, and thought persuasively, " _David, you're the eldest son of a prominent local family, **and** a notorious wanted criminal. Everybody down there knows who you are. You'll compromise the mission_." She looked at me even more intently and sent with even more emphasis, " _You'll endanger your friends_."

"I'm going!" I shouted, in words and thought-shapes alike. "I felt what they did to Katherine! I can't just sit up here, and wait."

This time Helga spoke ahead of Yvonne. "I'll take him."

Yvonne looked surprised, and a little upset. "Helga…"

"I decide who goes, remember?" Helga said in a matter-of-fact tone. "He's got fire in his belly. I like that. Besides, if they see his face, we're already so screwed it won't make any difference."

Instead of arguing further, Yvonne gave a resigned sigh. "I guess you're right. It's just…after everything they went through to escape, after rescuing them, having them safe here on the ship…and then sending them back into that…it just rubs me the wrong way."

Helga smiled, a little grimly. "Safety and freedom aren't given; they have to be fought for, and won. He's ready to fight. For himself, for his friends — and for us. It's his right. We can't deny it to him."

Yvonne smiled back, graciously. "All right, Helga, you win. David's in. What about Michael?"

She nodded. "I'll take him if he volunteers."

He said instantly, and emphatically, "Yes! I want to go!"

Helga chuckled. "I guess _that's_ settled, then."

"This brings up another issue," Yvonne said pensively, then turned her attention to Rosalind. Her thoughts were somber as she sent, " _David may have to kill someone tonight, Rosalind. Maybe more than one. To defend himself, to protect his friends, to protect **you** , he may have to end someone's life. Can you accept that? If he comes back from this mission with blood on his hands, can you welcome him, love him, comfort him — and he **will** need your comfort, you can be sure of that — and not turn your back on him, or condemn him?_"

" _There's blood on mine already. That's why I didn't want…to see any more killing_." Rosalind was equally serious as she took my hand. " _You're going to rescue our friends. I'll stay by your side, no matter what you have to do_."

I squeezed her hand and thought my gratitude and concern back at her.

Michael looked away and said, "Harvey! I didn't see you."

"No worries, mate," he said cheerfully from the next table. "You've been talking about the big stuff, and I didn't want to intrude."

Michael chuckled ruefully. "I think we've all had enough of the big stuff for a while."

Harvey chuckled back. "Well, if it's the small stuff you're wantin', you still up for cleaning the lift?"

Michael was almost eager. "Yeah!" Then a thought hit him. "If I've got time. I'm going on the rescue mission."

The red-head said thoughtfully, "Should be time. Takes about half an hour."

Helga smiled and nodded. "We can spare you for that long."

Harvey said, "Good enough. Soon as we're done eating, we're off," and turned back to his tray.

We were almost finished, and soon all that remained was the cake. It was like nothing I had ever tasted before, and it was gone all too soon. Rosalind enjoyed it even more than the brown milk, and Petra let a small excited pulse escape, raising a few more complaints. Yvonne had us make sure that everything was on our trays, then led us to the 'scullery' where we passed them through a window to be cleaned. Michael and Harvey walked off, talking about something mechanical.

Yvonne took her leave, saying, "Helga and I have things to do, but Gary can show you around the ship a little." She chuckled. "Harvey's itching to give you the real tour, but that'll have to wait."

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

I considered giving the Zealanders infrared imagers and Night Vision, but it comes off even more _deus ex machina_ and I probably have too much of that already. So, all they have are large-objective binoculars and tactical flashlights.

I have inserted the Zealand woman's famous lecture on evolution from Chapter 17 of The Chrysalids, by John Wyndham, into the dinner conversation. It's not plagiarism, it's a quote!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Gary was pleasant company, if quiet. He started by showing us to the 'aft lounge', a crescent-shaped room under the ship's stern, or tail. Petra held his hand, looking around at everything. She seemed rather taken with this strange, somewhat gloomy man. That worried me, but we were only beginning to understand how much more perceptive she was than the rest of us…

Our eyes were drawn to the big curve of windows, but Gary led us to the forward, or front, side of the room and a large glass case holding something we all recognized instantly — a zeppelin! It was only a yard long, but otherwise identical to the ship we'd seen above us, and then felt ourselves lifted into. I felt a little strange, looking at the outside of something while knowing I was inside it.

I saw a lot of details I'd missed in our short walk across that web-choked clearing. It was shaped like a long tube, over six inches wide, with a rounded nose and a tapered tail with four blades, like an arrow's fletching. Most of the top half was covered with thousands and thousands of tiny square bluish-black dots. Along the side, four rods stuck out with short tubes about an inch across and half an inch long attached to the ends. Looking into the fronts of these, I could see tiny, spidery bars inside them. Behind the last one, a longer, thinner tube with a sort of large collar around the front was attached by a wider support piece. I presumed there was a matching set on the other side, where we couldn't see them.

There was a long, flattish bulge along the bottom, from behind the nose to the beginning of the tail, a little over two-thirds of the total length. When I peered closer, I could see tiny windows and realized that everywhere we had gone inside the ship was in that bulge. A row of miniscule windows curved around the back of the bulge, reflecting the shape of the large windows around us, and I got my first real appreciation for the sheer _size_ of it. If I could see myself there inside the small zeppelin, I'd be tinier than an ant.

At the bottom of the case was a shiny brass plate with large black letters: **ZX-701 (1:300)  
**

Rosalind's voice was hushed, awed. "The Zealanders _made_ this. We thought the Old People were like gods, but we had no idea, none at all…this ship is a wonder, a miracle, but one made by _people_. What else could we do, if we weren't held back by fear, and hate?"

"And intolerance," Gary said quietly. "If they see that you're different…there's no greater sin than to be _different_."

Petra smiled up at him. "Don't be sad, Mister Gary. Everybody here likes you."

"Not everybody, but I do have friends here." He smiled back at her, a little. "If we're going to be friends, you should just call me Gary, okay?"

"Okay, Gary." Her smile brightened. "And we're already friends!"

His face relaxed into a genuine smile, and I saw that he was younger than I'd thought, probably in his early twenties. "I'm glad to be your friend, Petra. I'll try to be a good one."

"You'll be a really good friend, I just know it!"

He got more serious. "Well, you have to remember that good friends tell you when you do something wrong, or make mistakes. We don't do it to be mean, and it doesn't mean we think you're a bad person. We always think you're a good girl, and we're trying to help you do better. Try not to be upset with your brother, or Rosalind, or the other people who care about you when they have to tell you that you've made a mistake. Can you remember that?"

She was looking at him, wide-eyed. We had never explained things to her in quite that way, and it seemed to be making a big impression on her. She said solemnly, "I'll remember."

He smiled again. "Good girl. You'll probably make more mistakes, and we'll have to tell you about them, because you have something very special. None of us has ever heard of anyone with a mind-voice as powerful as yours. Right now, it's kind of too big for you, and you have a hard time controlling it. Sometimes you forget, and it hurts people. That's something you need to work on, but don't ever, _ever_ think it means that your power is a bad thing. Anything that's very powerful can cause damage and hurt people if it's misused — but when you learn to control it, and use it properly, you can do important, wonderful things, and help a lot of people."

This glimpse of my little sister's potential future left us all a trifle awed. She responded by flinging her arms around his waist and saying, "I'll try, Gary. I'll try really hard!"

He patted her back, a little awkwardly. "I know you will, Petra. You're a good girl, because you want to help people, not hurt them."

I recovered my voice next. "That's…we never thought to explain it to her that way. I think it'll help her a lot. Thanks."

"I'm glad to help."

Rosalind asked, "How do you know all that?"

Gary replied cautiously, "I have some experience with…dangerous gifts."

"What kind of experience?" Rosalind pressed him.

He said, a little evasively, "Hey, I'm not supposed to be boring you by talking about myself. Is there anything you want to know about the ship?"

I asked, "How big is it?"

Rosalind giggled. "Trust a man to ask that."

He pointed to a printed list inside the case, below the zeppelin's nose. "There's the specification table…" His words trailed off, then he said, "But it probably wouldn't mean much to people who've never seen a zeppelin before."

We looked at him expectantly.

"Uhum." He fixed his eyes on the list. "Okay, it's two hundred and eighty-five meters long and the main body is forty-eight meters in diameter—"

"What are meters?" I asked, confused.

He looked at us helplessly, then called out plaintively, " _Harvey? They don't know what a meter is. Help!_ "

Somebody, presumably the red-haired man, answered, " _They're probably using feet, gallons, pounds and whatnot_." He addressed all of us. " _A meter is a little more than a yard. If you just think yards, it should be close enough for most purposes_."

I asked, " _So the ship is two hundred and eighty-five yards long?_ "

" _A little more. I worked it all out a while ago. The ZX-701 is almost exactly nine hundred and thirty-five of your feet long, and a hundred and fifty-seven feet, six inches in diameter_." His thought-shapes were clear, precise, and much easier to understand than his words.

" _Thanks, Harvey_." Gary chuckled ruefully. "You should wait and ask him all the technical questions. I can only answer the simple ones."

Petra asked the simple question on all our minds. "How does it fly?"

He looked down at her, amused. "Of course you'd ask that one. It's a simple question, but it doesn't have a simple answer." He corrected himself. "Well, actually, it does, but it takes a _lot_ of explaining. The simple answer is, it floats in the air."

That didn't make sense to me, but I'd play along. "How?"

"That's what takes the explaining. You know how a boat floats on water." We all nodded after a few seconds. "It floats because the air inside the boat weighs a lot less than the water outside."

That made even less sense. "Wait a minute. Air doesn't weigh anything."

He chuckled again. "That's what I used to think, but I was wrong. I was surprised how much it weighs. Over a kilogram per cubic meter at sea level."

I was confused again. "That's…a yard…but, what's a kilogram?"

Gary called for help again. " _Harvey? How much does air weigh, in Labrador?_ "

Harvey replied, " _Well, one-point-two-three kilograms per cubic meter at sea level_ …" There was a long pause, then, " _About two pounds per cubic yard, give or take. And before you ask, hydrogen…around a seventh of a pound, I think. Good enough?_ "

" _Thanks again. Don't mean to keep bugging you_."

" _No worries. Cleaning the lift doesn't take a lot of thought_."

He returned his attention to us. "So, the boat floats because air is lighter than water. There's a gas called hydrogen, that's lighter than air. The lift chamber," he pointed upwards, "is mostly full of hydrogen, and some air, just enough to lift the ship's weight."

I had so many questions about that I didn't know where to start. Rosalind said, "But, a boat floats on _top_ of the water."

"Where's the top of the air?" Gary asked. "I don't understand all the details myself, and I'm not so good at explaining things. Harvey knows a lot more, and explains it better. He really wants to show the ship off to you, so could you wait until he can tell you?"

Petra didn't seem to be following any of it, but she didn't seem concerned either. We were inside it, and it was flying. Obviously, it worked. I envied her, just a little. I settled on a question. "How much does this zeppelin weigh?"

He said hesitantly, "I think it's about three hundred and eighty tons, right now."

Rosalind and I were both speechless. After a long minute I forced out, "You're telling me…this ship weighs _three hundred and eighty **tons**_ …and it's _**floating**_ in the _**air**_."

He nodded. "That's right. It can even carry more." He pointed to the 'Specifications' list. "I told you the lift chamber is not completely full of hydrogen. It can carry another fifty-five tons, as high as twenty-five hundred meters."

Once I got my brain around three hundred and eighty tons, another fifty-five was easier — like swallowing an apple whole would be easy compared to swallowing a twenty-pound pumpkin. My brain felt like it _had_ swallowed a twenty-pound pumpkin.

I thought we had learned so much, listening in on Michael's school in Kentak. None of us had ever imagined there was so much more to know. Rosalind and I looked at each other, almost despairing of ever being anything but unlettered primitives to the Zealanders. We'd thought Yvonne was arrogant and condescending, when she first got close enough for us to communicate directly; now we could see that she had been understating the vast gap between their knowledge and ours.

Rosalind's thoughts were bleak as she sent, " _How will we ever learn even the least part of all this? We shall be useless for anything more than scrubbing floors and carrying water_."

Gary said, kindly, "You'll learn the same way all of us did, one thing at a time." He added, "And, uh…we don't carry water. It's pumped into our houses, in pipes."

Rosalind threw her hands up. "Augh! You see? I didn't even know _that!_ "

I jested, "Well, he didn't say they don't scrub floors." It fell flat as Rosalind gave me a very empty look. I might have to pay for that, later. Even Petra seemed a bit put off.

Gary decided a change of subject was in order. "Anyway, that's what holds the ship up." He pointed to the rods and tubes. "Those are what makes it go. They're motors, with propellers inside, that pull air in the front and push it out the back, making the ship move forward. They can be reversed, and it can go backward, but it's a lot harder to control that way. Harvey can explain why."

I pointed to the tail and said, "It's the blades, right? It would be like shooting an arrow backward."

He nodded. "You're right. I didn't think of that. Just like an arrow." He pointed to the longer tube near the tail. "That's one of the engines. We use those when we want to go faster than the main motors can, or when there's not enough electricity available to use them. The solar cells," he waved his hand at the zeppelin's top, "generate electricity from sunlight. It runs the motors, and some of it is stored in batteries to run the motors at night. We used the engines most of the way here, to go fast enough to get here in time to rescue you, and used up almost all the fuel for them. If you want to know more about any of that, you'll have to ask Harvey later."

That was a lot to take in all at once. I asked, "What's electricity?"

Gary said apologetically, "Way too big a subject to get into now. It powers everything on this ship except those engines, and I don't know how to explain it. Maybe Harvey does."

Petra had become bored with all our talk and was gazing wistfully at the windows. Gary noticed. "Let's have a look outside, and see where we are."

We followed Petra's mad dash to the nearest windows, and agreed with her wondering "Oooooooh…" as we looked across a land that seemed to stretch on forever. To our right, the green woods and meadows of Fringes country reached almost to the horizon, where it turned darker. I suspected we were seeing the distant Badlands. To our left, the woods ran for only a short distance before they were replaced by fields, most green, a few yellowing with early-ripening grain, with only small patches of woods in between. We saw tiny houses and barns, grayish-brown roads and a few streams. Far to our right was a larger river, possibly the one we had crossed on our way to the Fringes cave-village.

Gary pointed off to our right. "Look."

It took me a minute to see what he meant, but there was something long, dark and blurry lying across the trees several miles away. Rosalind asked, "What is that?"

He chuckled. "It's our shadow."

I looked, and tried to understand. The zeppelin's shadow was enormous, covering dozens, scores of trees. It was bigger than our house back in Waknuk, bigger than the stables, almost as big as some of the fields. And we were inside the ship that made it, floating high above the ground, with rooms and beds, bathrooms and kitchens, and a huge room that existed for no other purpose than for people to relax and look out as the world drifted by below.

The windows were angled outward at their tops, allowing us to see straight down if we cared to lean forward a little. It made me a touch dizzy, so I only tried it once. Petra had her face practically stuck to the glass. "I can see the whole world," she said wonderingly.

I turned to Gary. "I know it's not the whole world, but how far _can_ we see?"

"I'd think about a hundred kilometers from this altitude," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe a hundred and fifty."

I groaned. "More of those meter things. Those are going to be hard to get used to."

"They probably will, but everything in Zealand is measured in meters and grams." He thought of something. "You could ask Harvey to write down some conversions to those yards and pounds you're used to. That should help."

That was a _very_ good idea. I said, "I'll do that. In fact, I'll do it now. _Harvey?_ "

There was a short delay before he answered, " _Mite busy. What d'you need?_ "

" _Oh. Sorry. I just…had another run-in with those meters. How many miles can we see from here?_ "

" _Um. Miles_." He considered the question. " _At this altitude, I'd say close to a hundred_."

" _Wow_." I'd never gone a hundred miles in my life, unless we'd come that far to the Fringes. " _Thanks, Harvey. Hey, Gary said you could write some of that down for us later, some, uh, conversions_."

Harvey sent, " _Good idea. I'll do that, tonight or tomorrow. Now, if I don't get back to work this will take all night_."

" _Thanks again, Harvey_."

A hundred miles. We probably could see as _far_ as Waknuk from here, but it would be too tiny to actually _see_ , and I had no idea which direction to look. It could be behind any part of that huge sweep of farmland. I suddenly realized that since we were in the back of the zeppelin, it was pointed away from Waknuk, and wondered, "Why are we pointing away from Waknuk? Aren't we going there tonight?"

Gary reassured me, "The wind's blowing us towards Waknuk, more or less, and we don't want the ship drifting back there. If they see it, that might make our mission tonight harder, or more dangerous for the people we're trying to rescue. We're facing into the wind, running the motors just fast enough to keep us pretty much in one place."

My brain felt stretched out of shape again. "This zeppelin is almost a thousand feet long, it weighs three hundred and eighty _tons_ , and it just…drifts with the wind. Like a dandelion seed."

He chuckled. "It might seem strange, but yeah, that's about it."

Eventually I tired of that grand vista and returned my attention to the zeppelin. Petra had led us to the right-hand end of that great curve of windows, and I looked up and a little forward around the outside to one of the 'engines' Gary had told us about, the 'port' one. It looked a lot bigger in real life, about fifteen feet long and four wide, with that collar around the front being about five feet long and ten or twelve feet wide. I wondered what it was like here when those engines were running.

I looked around the room. A curve of seats or couches started a few feet to our left, following the windows most of the way round. Other seats and tables were grouped behind them, with about a dozen Zealanders sitting alone or in small groups, looking outside as we were or buzzing with thoughts, or reading unfamiliar-looking books with colorful pictures on their covers. A few looked curiously at us, but seemed to understand that we were not ready to meet a whole slew of new people and begin socializing while the rescue mission loomed so large in our thoughts.

Soon even Petra's interest in the great, wide world was satisfied, and Gary conducted us to the other exit from the aft lounge. Rosalind fell in beside me and took my hand, so it seemed I was forgiven my failed joke — at least provisionally. We followed him through a set of doors and into a room filled with long shelves and absolutely packed with books, more books than I had thought existed in the whole world.

Rosalind squeezed my hand. "Wait until Michael sees this!"

I warned her, "Let's not tell him about it until _after_ the rescue mission. It would take both of your father's great-horses to drag him out of here!"

She said piously, "Even if he abstained, knowing it's here would only torment him. We must spare him that!" We both laughed, Rosalind leaning against me. I might have just redeemed myself.

Petra was looking around without much interest. Her experience of books was limited to the Bible and Nicholson's _Repentances_ , both of them far too dry and stuffy for a seven-year-old. I was sure that somewhere in this marvelous treasure-trove of knowledge were books that would engage her interest, fire her imagination and make an eager reader of her. After the conclusion of tonight's mission, we could begin planning that one.

Gary smiled at us. "As you've clearly guessed, this is the ship's library. There are some ten or twelve thousand books here, whatever Steven and Harvey could scrounge up that nobody minded them taking. There's room for a lot more, and if this zeppelin gets put into regular service, the rest of the shelves will no doubt be filled and a librarian will be available, to help you find what you want, or need. For now, you'll just have to wander the shelves and pick up whatever catches your interest. There's a log, there, to write down your name and which books you take, and mark them returned when you bring them back."

He led us back out, a short distance forward down the hall, and through another set of doors into a large open room with many strange things. The first thing I noticed was three pairs of people fighting in one corner. They all wore large…things on their heads. Two had bulky things on their hands, too, and were circling and punching at each other. Michael had seen 'boxing' in Kentak and this looked much like he had described it, but he hadn't said anything about them kicking each other. One suddenly spun around, his leg shot out and knocked his opponent down violently. He stopped and helped the man up. There were two men fighting with long sticks with large round ends, and a man fighting a _woman!_ They all seemed quite serious.

Gary said, "This is the ship's gym. There are weights, punching bags, pedal machines, sparring mats and a number of other things available. A lot of people stop in here a couple of times a week. There's a dedicated head through that door, with eight showers instead of the usual two."

He led us through the room, back to the hallway on 'our' side of the ship, the port side. There were two of these 'passageways' leading from the meal-room to the aft lounge, with people's rooms 'outboard' from them, and shared amenities like the heads, library and gym between them. Gary pointed to a closed door with no light showing through its window. "That's the store. It's closed now, because there's only one store-keeper and she has to sleep, eat and have some time to herself. You've seen the laundry, and there's a tailor shop next to it but nobody aboard to run it. This ship was planned as a complete, self-contained community to make extended voyages lasting a year, or even longer."

I chuckled. "Is there anything this ship _doesn't_ have?"

He grinned back. "A swimming pool. That much water sloshing around would raise hell with the ship's stability — and don't even **_think_** about what would happen in a storm! There's a spa, with two hot tubs, but they can only be filled when the weather's calm."

Not all of that made complete sense to me, but my brain was already feeling unpleasantly full and I didn't press him for more details. We walked a moderate distance forward, then stopped. Gary said, "That's about all the time we have right now. Things are going to be busy until we get your friends aboard. These are your rooms, right? Twenty-eight through thirty-four?"

Rosalind nodded. I asked, "Why are they all even numbers?"

"Odd numbers are on the starboard side," he explained. "That way, you instantly know which side of the ship a room is on. Michael should be back soon, and then we can start mission prep."

Petra suddenly seemed troubled by something. She caught hold of Gary's arm and asked plaintively, "If David kills someone tonight, that doesn't mean he's a bad person, does it?" His efforts to divert her attention during supper must not have been entirely successful.

We all looked at each other with resignation. Gary suggested, "Let's not discuss it here in the passageway."

I looked at Rosalind. "My room?" She nodded again. I opened the door marked 28, we all entered, and Rosalind closed it. Rosalind, Petra and I all sat on the bed, and Gary sat sideways on a chair at the small table, facing us. Like those in the meal-room it was attached to the floor, only free to move a short distance forward and back.

Gary looked a question at us, and I nodded. He said, "Killing someone is a bad thing, but that doesn't always mean you're a bad person. Sometimes you have to do bad things, to prevent even worse things. Like…spankings. Are spankings a good thing?"

Petra giggled. "No! They're very _very_ bad!"

"They are," he agreed. "But if a child does terrible, naughty things, and keeps on doing them no matter what you say to him, what can you do about it?"

Petra said reluctantly, "You have to spank him."

"You have to spank him _every time_ he does naughty things, until he learns not to do them."

Petra nodded glumly. She had rarely needed spankings, and we could see her gaining a new perspective on them.

Gary continued. "Grown-up people are kind of hard to spank."

Petra giggled again. "Daddy would spank Uncle Angus, if he could." That made Rosalind giggle too, and me laugh. I could almost see that…

Now he looked very serious. "When adults do bad things, they usually do very bad things indeed, and it's hard to make them stop. Some of them hurt and kill other people, because they want to take what those people own, or just because they hate them."

Petra suddenly looked devastated. "Like us. Those men wanted to kill us. Why did they hate us?"

I answered her, "Because we're Mutants. They were told, by people they trusted to tell them the truth, that Mutants are evil, and that meant we were evil. They were told that killing us was a good thing. We had to stop them."

"Because you're _different_ ," Gary corrected me. "They were told those things, but they _wanted_ to believe them. They wanted a reason to drive you out, hunt you down and kill you. It's all because we're different. Don't ever doubt that, or forget it." He spoke with a kind of fervent intensity, as of a subject singularly important to him. It made me a little uncomfortable, and Rosalind too, I thought.

He went on in a calmer tone, "When somebody does, or is going to do, a bad thing, sometimes we have to do something bad to stop them. Sometimes we have to kill them. That's what soldiers do, or policemen. When there are no soldiers or police around, you might have to do it yourself." He concentrated on her and his voice was intense again as he said, "You have the right to stop someone from killing or hurting you and your friends, and that doesn't make you a bad person."

Petra nodded solemnly, and Rosalind put her arm around her and told her, very seriously, "I had to kill one of those men three days ago, Petra. He would have killed us, or told the others where to find us. I think I'm still a good person."

Petra was surprised, and a little shocked. "I didn't know that."

Rosalind agreed. "It happened while you were asleep, and we didn't tell you about it."

She was confused, some. "Why?"

Rosalind looked, and sounded, distant. "We didn't want you to fret, and…I was ashamed, a little. I'd never imagined myself killing someone before. It was so fast…he was there, following our trail, he saw me, I shot. It wasn't until after, that I really knew I'd done it." She frowned. "Then I had to hide the body. In a way, that was harder than killing him."

Gary nodded. "It bothers you. You wish there'd been another way. That's good. It's when killing becomes easy for you, that you've got to worry." He returned his attention to Petra. "I've killed people, too. More than one. All of them had done very bad things, and would have done more if they lived. I'm a soldier now, most of the time, and it's my job to stop dangerous people from hurting others. Some of them won't stop unless I kill them." He sighed. "Sometimes, I think it _is_ too easy for me. I have to be careful. I have to remember why I'm doing what I do."

Petra looked at him for a long moment, then said quietly, "You're still my friend, and I still think you're a good person."

He smiled, looking greatly relieved. "Thank you, Petra. That means a lot to me."

She asked him anxiously, "So when I forget, and hurt people…"

Gary smiled reassuringly. "If you don't mean to hurt them, if you're sorry about it, and if you really want to work at not doing it again, you can still be a good person. I think you're a good person, and you're still my friend."

We sat there a little longer, then he stood up. "Well, there are things I have to do. Mission prep waits for no man." He opened the door, then turned back to me. "Helga will call you when we're ready for you." Then he was gone.

Michael got back a few minutes later. Cleaning the lift had involved lowering it to about ten feet below the zeppelin, then lowering themselves after it on harnesses and ropes until they were underneath. He gave me an impression of how it felt to hang in the sky with nothing below him but air, and laughed about how all their tools had to be tied to them. They sprayed the stuck-on webbing with 'solvent' and scraped it off, then wiped away the residue with rags. Harvey told him the plastic was 'biodegradable' — a few months' exposure to sun and weather would cause it to crumble and dissolve into the ground. Within a year little would remain to mark the Battle Of The Fringes but the bones of horses, and men…and poor Sophie…

Everything hit me all at once, and I grieved for my childhood friend, for how she had lived, and how she had died, simply for being born with a couple of extra toes. I wondered if that could really be how God intended for people to treat one another. Rosalind comforted me, and Michael tactfully took Petra out, closed the door and left us alone. I felt a shifting then, and under-Rosalind was there, pushing her harder sister-twin aside to do what only she could do…

Neither of us knew how long we sat there before we pulled apart a little, my shirt and her dress both soaked with our tears. Our minds were still wrapped tightly together as we looked into each other's eyes and finally, irrevocably left Waknuk and everything it stood for behind forever.

We had all thought it for years, felt it, almost-believed it, but in that moment we both _knew_ , to the bottoms of our souls, that the things we had been taught were lies. That Sophie, Petra, Rosalind and I, Michael and Rachel, Mark, Sally and Katherine, my uncle Gordon, the Zealanders, all we Mutants, were not monsters, not soulless abominations spawned by the Devil to corrupt the Earth, but only people, innocent human beings born with something different about us. We hadn't asked to be different, didn't deserve to be hated, hunted down, tortured and murdered. The men doing those things were not acting on God's behalf, but only for themselves, out of their own fear and hate for what they didn't want to understand. _They_ were the monsters, not us.

Helga called a few minutes later. " _David, you and Michael have some things to learn before the mission. Come **here** and we'll get started_." She sent a remarkably complex thought-shape, and I _knew_ where she meant.

I untangled my arms, and my mind, from Rosalind's and stood up. "Rosalind…"

She smiled, a little sadly. "I know, David. You have to get ready to rescue our friends. If there's not time to see me before you leave, I understand. Take my love with you, and come back to me." Clearly, under-Rosalind was still in ascendance.

I choked up, smiled and nodded to her, and left our room. The way was forward, through the meal-room and into a part of the ship I hadn't yet seen. I found the right door and stepped into the 'ready room' to find Michael already there with Yvonne, Helga, Gary and two other Zealanders sitting around a large table. On it were over a dozen unfamiliar objects, and two of the strange guns I had seen before.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Helga looked at me sympathetically. "Feeling better, David?"

I told her brusquely, "I'm fine. Let's get started."

She wasn't quite ready to let it go. " _There's nothing to be embarrassed about. It's called post-traumatic stress, and after what you've been through these last few days you've all got some. Crying it out in the arms of someone you trust is one of the sanest ways of dealing with it. I've done it myself, a time or three_."

I stared at her in disbelief. Crying? Helga? She couldn't be lying, but the concept just wouldn't go into my head. I gave up and walked over to sit two places down from Michael. He had a few large sheets of paper in front of him, and such paper! They were perfectly white, perfectly smooth, with even edges and sharp corners. It seemed almost a sacrilege to see words and lines drawn all over them. Helga had a very big, thick white book with white shapes in a blue circle above the title: NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC **ATLAS** OF THE **WORLD** NINTH EDITION. ATLAS and WORLD were much larger than the other words. She seemed almost to be guarding it, while Michael tried not to stare at it greedily.

Helga must have considered that subject adequately dealt with. "I think we've figured out where we're going." She opened the book to a page marked by a long silver ribbon attached to its spine, showing an intricately detailed painting, mostly white and blue with colored lines and tiny words on it. "This is one of the Old People's maps of Labrador and Quebec. We are presently about here," she put her finger on the map, "flying over Quebec forty or fifty kilometers north of Manicouagan Reservoir, which is obviously an ancient impact crater filled with water. Here," she moved her finger several inches up and to the right, "is the Old People's town of Wabush, in the same location as modern-day Waknuk. Your father's farm is around five kilometers south of that. You traveled nearly a hundred and fifty kilometers."

Now I was a mite disappointed. Wabush was just a little black dot below a blue splotch called Shabogamo Lake. We called it Lake Waknuk and I didn't think it reached so far to the north and east. A wide green and yellowish-brown line surrounded Wabush on all but the north side, and there was another dot marked Labrador City just to the north-west where I _knew_ there were only fields and woods. There was a kind of cross-shaped red mark between them and I **_knew_** there wasn't anything like _that_ north-west of Waknuk. I looked up again with a wordless question-shape.

"This map was printed over three thousand years ago," Yvonne explained. "I'd be surprised if much of anything is still the same. Lakes fill up with sediment, rivers change course, and the Old People's towns and roads broke up and were buried and overgrown long ago. Only the largest terrain features would match what we see today. Such as that crater, which must be tens or hundreds of millions of years old."

Michael was gazing intently at the map, and the large ring-shaped 'reservoir', taking in every word. "That crater…?"

She tapped the spot. "It's where a huge rock fell from outer space and slammed into the ground, long before humans even existed. It made a hole over eighty kilometers across, and probably twenty deep, then over time the center pushed up to form that island in the middle. Mont de Babel," she mused. "Nine hundred and fifty-two meters. That would be the solitary mountain we see to the south."

"Now I've got even more questions," he complained.

Yvonne smiled indulgently. "That's usually the way of it, but they'll have to wait until after we rescue your friends."

Michael looked dissatisfied, but nodded. Then he touched the ancient map almost reverently, several inches east of Waknuk, or Wabush. "Where's Kentak?" he asked, puzzled. "It should be about here, but the map doesn't show anything."

Yvonne was looking, too. "There may not have been a town there in the Old People's time. They had much better means of transport than horses, so they might not have wanted or needed a town at that location. It's near this Kepimits Lake, so the name Kentak might be derived from that, as Wabush has changed to Waknuk over all this time."

I couldn't help it; I had to know. "What's that?" I asked, pointing at the red mark between Wabush and Labrador City.

"It's the Old People's map symbol for an airport," Yvonne explained, "a place where airplanes take off and land." She almost stopped there, but she could see in our faces that more was needed. "The Old People hardly used zeppelins at all. They considered them too big, too slow, and too expensive. They mostly used jet-powered airplanes," she sent us an image of a sleek, silver machine with a long row of rounded windows along the side and tail blades that looked only a little like the zeppelin's. "They're much faster than a zeppelin, and can fit in smaller places, but since they don't float in the air they can only fly when they're moving very fast." She thought for a few seconds. "More than a hundred miles an hour. They have to run along the ground until they are moving fast enough to fly, and they have to land going just as fast, and then slow down. They need a long, straight, flat, perfectly smooth road called a runway for taking off and landing, places for people and cargo to be loaded and unloaded, and large buildings where they can be protected from weather and repaired. That symbol means one of the Old People's airports was near Wabush, but there would be no trace of it now."

I thought of a goose running across a lake, flapping frantically to get into the air, and nodded.

Helga got us back on track. "Here," she tapped near Waknuk, "is the Inspector's house, east of this southern finger of Shabogamo Lake and about seventeen kilometers north-east of your father's farm. Michael has helped us make up drawings of the surroundings."

He took that as a cue to stop analyzing the Old People's map and spread out his papers. The first one showed us a small settlement, barely a village, with a stable, a smithy, a store, two wells and less than two dozen houses. The Inspector's house was near the south edge, three houses in. Michael's second drawing shrunk that to small shape in the center of the paper and showed fields, fence-rows and foot-paths. Helga pointed to a green X-mark. "We've located five suitable places to drop off our infiltration team, and pick them up again. We call them 'landing zones', or LZs for short. They're all about a kilometer from the objective, or eleven hundred yards. LZ-4, our preferred place to insert the team, is south-east of the target, and the primary extraction point, LZ-1, is south-west."

This wasn't the Inspector I remembered, who had given me one small morsel of comfort when Sophie was captured. This was the Inspector in the next district; Sally and Katherine were in his jurisdiction. I asked, "Why not just go back to the same place? We'd already know the way."

Helga said, "So could the enemy. It's bad operational practice to extract from the same place you insert. I admit the risk is extremely small in this case, since I doubt we're dealing with any kind of trained military force, but I prefer not to take unnecessary chances. The necessary ones are quite enough!"

I could agree with that.

She continued, "We'll make one slow overflight of the place at four hundred meters to check it out. I'd like to use IR and Night Vision, but we don't have either one on board so we'll have to make do with some big-eye binoculars. We do have plenty of those." She picked something black and complex-looking up off the table and took two round caps off one end. "The pupils of your eyes, where light goes in, are five to six millimeters wide in the dark. These binoculars have sixty-millimeter objectives, which means they collect at least a hundred times more light than your eyes alone, and focus most of it into your eyes. They make everything look brighter. Not bright as day, no matter what some idiots claim, but they'll help us see."

I'd take her word for it. Michael looked fairly bursting with questions, but manfully restrained himself.

Her forehead furrowed slightly with concern. "It'll never really get dark tonight, at least not dark the way we like it. It's the middle of June, and we're at almost fifty-three degrees north latitude. That puts the sun less than fourteen degrees below the horizon at local midnight. Even with no moon, the northern sky will still show a little light, and the best we'll get is a deep dusk." She sighed. "Oh, well, we'll deal with it."

I could almost see her shove that in the box of Things We Can't Do Anything About.

"Next, we have Mark and Rachel. I'd like to have Rachel meet us a good distance from both her house and the Strorm farm. David, do you have any ideas?"

I thought on that, and offered, "There's the bank. It runs south of both farms, and if she goes west along the top for a mile or so, there shouldn't be anyone around for a long way." Where I'd met Sophie, and more-or-less started down the path that led me here.

She asked, "Are there trees on the top, or heavy brush?"

I said reflectively, "It's been years, but I only remember a few patches. Nothing much seems to want to grow on it."

She nodded. "That should work. We can stop there at twelve-thirty and have plenty of time to reach the objective by one AM. We'll have to wait until Petra is asleep and we can talk to Rachel directly to find out about Mark. Speaking of, let's get her to call Rachel and tell her our plans. Where is she?"

Michael chuckled. "Petra's in the after lounge, charming the socks off people. You'd think they'd never seen an adorable little blonde girl before."

We all laughed, and he called, " _Petra? We need you to talk to Rachel for us again_."

She replied with a carefully restrained, " _What do you want me to tell her?_ "

I sent, " _Ask her if she knows the bank, the big one that runs south of her house_."

We all sort of squinted mentally, then she came back with, " _She says yes_."

" _Tell her we'll meet her on top of that bank, at least a mile west of her house, at twelve-thirty tonight_."

She used less power this time, barely a dazzle-roar in our heads. " _She'll be waiting. She's kind of all excited inside_."

Michael said, " _We all are. After we pick up our friends, we'll be on our way to Zealand_."

Petra let out a strong happy-shape. " _Oops. Sorry, everybody_."

Helga signed off with, " _Michael and David have to get ready to rescue your friends now_."

" _Okay_."

Michael looked troubled. "Is there some way we can make _sure_ Petra sleeps until morning? I think there will be things we should spare her from knowing."

Yvonne's perfect teeth nibbled her lip. "You may have a point. _Doctor?_ "

A new mind-voice answered, " _Yes, Yvonne?_ "

" _I know you won't like it, and I don't either, but we need to guarantee that a certain seven-year-old girl will sleep through the night. We can't avoid what we find tonight, but we shouldn't expose her to it_."

" _You're right, I don't like it_." She continued reluctantly, " _You're also right, it needs to be done. I'll have something ready in ten minutes_."

" _Thank you, Doctor_."

I called, " _Rosalind, will you do something for me?_ "

" _Of course, David. Anything_."

" _Would you go to sick-bay in ten minutes and get something from the doctor, for my little sister? Give it to her when she goes to bed, to make sure she sleeps all night_."

She didn't answer for several seconds and when she did, her thought-shapes were subdued. " _I think that's…not a **good** idea, but necessary. I'll take care of it_."

" _Thank you, Rosalind_."

Helga was suddenly all business. "Now, we need to teach you both something about what we're going to be doing tonight, and the equipment we'll be using. I see neither of you can keep your eyes off those rifles, so we'll start with them. Michael, pass one to David and take the other one."

He did. I recognized the barrel, trigger and stock, but the rest was unfamiliar. It was entirely black, shorter than the guns I knew, with a short enlarged tube at the muzzle. There was no cock, pan or frizzen, just a long hole in the right side and another in the bottom. The fore-grip was completely separate from the stock, and there was some sort of hand-grip added behind the trigger. There was an obvious thick wire handle folded down on the right side. The sling was also black, ribbed, and with a wide padded section in the middle. I thought of all the sore shoulders I'd gotten from hard leather gun-slings and cursed the unimaginative souls who hadn't thought of this long ago.

Yvonne smiled, stood up and said teasingly, "I've seen all of Helga's toys, and there are a lot of other things that have to be taken care of. I'll leave you to your fun." Helga gave her an extravagant wave good-bye as she left the room.

Helga's voice took on a lecturing tone. "This automatic rifle is what the Old People called an FN-FAL. It's one of several hundred different kinds of guns they made, and the one we decided fit our needs best. If there was one thing the Old People knew how to do, it's pack guns away so they'd last forever. We've found tens of thousands of their guns, still working after more than three thousand years. These two were not actually made by the Old People, but in Zealand, following their designs."

"Before we go any further, can either of you tell me what is the first and most important thing to know about a gun, any gun, no matter how big or small, simple or complex it is?"

Michael said, "How to tell if it's loaded," and I nodded firm agreement.

Helga smiled. "Excellent. I'd go in a slightly different direction: how to be absolutely sure it's **UN** loaded. Very few things are more dangerous than a gun that's loaded when you think it's not."

We both agreed with her on that.

She continued our quiz. "What's the second rule of gun handling, almost as important as the first?"

I answered this one. "Never point it at anything you're not going to shoot."

She smiled again, almost proudly. "Very good. On this ship, there's an even more important rule —" She switched to thought-shapes, " _Never, **never** point the barrel **up!**_ "

" _ **Never!**_ " She regarded us both with a sort of grave concentration. " _Up there_ ," she pointed to the ceiling, " _is the lift chamber that holds our zeppelin in the air, and it's mostly full of hydrogen gas. There are a lot of precautions taken to keep it safely contained, but they won't stand up to a bullet. At the very least, if we're luckier than anybody deserves to be, it would make a hole, a leak that would cause us to lose altitude. If we're not unreasonably lucky, it would start a fire that would burn the entire zeppelin up in about a minute and kill us all_." Her thought-shapes fairly blazed with her need to impress upon us the critical importance of her dictate.

We both nodded soberly and said, "Yes, Helga." I resolved to bear her warning in mind at all times.

"Develop the habit of keeping your guns pointed _down_ whenever you're not aiming at a target. If I see either of you forget that in our training session tonight, I will think of some extremely unpleasant ways to remind you." She regarded us sternly, and when we both nodded she continued, "We don't carry our rifles like everybody else, either. We sling them with the barrel down, on the right side, or left side if you shoot left-handed. I don't recommend that. The FN-FAL is designed to be shot right-handed."

She gestured at the FN-FALs. "The basic form of long guns hasn't changed significantly since the Old People invented them nearly four thousand years ago. You have a stock which you brace against your shoulder, in line with a barrel that shoots something out when you ignite the propellant charge. This is usually initiated by pulling back on a small curved metal trigger under the receiver with your index finger. Your flintlock muskets follow this pattern exactly."

"The biggest difference you will notice is that you don't have to reload these automatic rifles by hand. With some practice you can reload your muskets twice in a minute; with a lot of practice you can get up to three times, but that's about the limit. Has that been your experience?"

Michael repeated an old joke, "I once heard about a man who could load and shoot five times a minute, but the man that said it was a famous liar."

We all laughed at that. Helga nodded approvingly at him and said, "He'd have to be. These rifles automatically load themselves, and they can load and shoot ten times a _second_. That is _not_ a lie."

I was dumbfounded. One of these guns could shoot more bullets in one second than ours could in three minutes. One man, with one FN-FAL, could kill the entire posse that had pursued us in five seconds. I began to believe what Yvonne had told us, that the Old People had destroyed their world themselves.

She waited for that to sink in. "Just because the gun can shoot ten times a second doesn't make it a good idea. I'm sure you're familiar with a gun's recoil, or kick. How well could you aim a gun that kicks ten times a second?"

Michael let out an ironic chuckle. "Not. You'd wave it all over the place or, it would wave you."

Helga nodded. "Shooting full-auto, as it's called, is a great way to waste all your ammunition and hit everything _except_ the target. The only time it makes _any_ sense is if you're shooting into a packed mob of enemies running towards you at very short range. With a great deal of training, and experience, you could learn to shoot in short bursts, no more than five shots at a time, and maintain control. We don't have time for that, so you will stick with semi-auto if you shoot at all. If you turn your rifles over, carefully, without pointing them at any of us…" She waited as we obeyed her, "…you'll see the fire selector, that little black lever above and just behind the trigger. Right now, both of them had better be pointing to 'S' or I'll have to give you one of those unpleasant reminders for monkeying with it."

We both assured her that they were.

She smiled. "Good. I really didn't suspect you of being that stupid, but other people have disappointed me in the past. Right now it's in the Safe position, and the guns can't shoot. You can put your fingers on the triggers now, and see that you can't move them. If you can, tell me immediately because the gun is broken."

I tried to pull the trigger, awkwardly, and found that it wouldn't move. Michael encountered the same thing.

She waited a few seconds, until we tired of the triggers not moving. "Now you can move your select levers to R, for Repeat." She chuckled. "You can see why they couldn't use another S, for Semi-Auto."

We did as instructed. I found the lever quite stiff, and had to push it rather hard, but it snapped down to point at the R.

"You both noticed that it wasn't easy to change from Safe to Repeat. It's not supposed to be. You don't want to take the gun off Safe by accident. In the Repeat position, the gun shoots one time when you pull the trigger, loads the next round, and repeats that every time you pull the trigger. There are other reasons your guns can't shoot now, so you can go ahead and pull the triggers."

We did that, too. Mine moved smoothly, with a heavy pull, probably to keep us from shooting them by accident. These guns seemed to be loaded with things to prevent them from shooting by accident.

"Now for A, or Automatic. You will find that you can't push the selector past R. If you look at the pivot end of the select lever, you will see that it has a notch in it, and another little spring-loaded lever hooked into the notch. You have to push that lever up while pushing the select lever down and forward, and then all the way around to A." She waited patiently while we fumbled with them until we succeeded. "The Old People's FN-FALs did not have that feature. It was much easier, too easy in our opinion, to set the selector to A, so we added that little lever. Automatic is that ten-bullets-a-second I mentioned. You will **_not_** be using it tonight; I just showed you because otherwise you'd ask questions about it, and I'd have to show you anyway. Now move the levers back to S."

We did that.

"You saw that you didn't have to do anything special to take the gun _out_ of Auto. We designed it that way to make it very hard to put them into Auto by accident. I'd like to say it's impossible, but I won't. Every time you think you've made something fool-proof, some damn fool comes along and proves you wrong."

All of us laughed at that one, too.

Helga picked up a round brass object about six inches long, bigger at one end than the other. "This is what makes our guns so much better than yours — the self-contained cartridge. To load your guns you have to pour gunpowder down the barrel, shove a bullet in after it, cock the action, pour priming powder into the pan, and close the frizzen. All of that takes twenty to thirty seconds if you're good. This has the bullet," she pointed to the small end, "propellant charge," she pointed to the middle, "and primer, that little silver button in the base, all in one unit."

She paused to ask, "Do either of you know anything about steam engines?"

We both informed her that we did. Michael's school had covered the basics, and he'd been interested enough to learn more, and share as much of it with us as we cared to know.

She nodded. "Good, that will make explaining this next part easier. When the propellant charge burns, it generates a lot of hot, high-pressure gas that shoots the bullet out of the barrel. Near the muzzle, there where the fore-stock ends, there is a tiny hole drilled in the barrel to let some of that gas out. When the bullet passes that point, gas is forced through the hole into that last piece, the gas block, and back down a cylinder above the barrel. It drives a piston, just like in a steam engine, that pushes the bolt back against a spring inside the bolt cover and pulls the empty brass case out from the back of the barrel. It flips the case out the ejection port, that hole in the side. When the bolt is pushed all the way back, it hits a stop and the recoil spring pushes it forward again. It catches the next cartridge, pushes it out of the magazine and into the back end of the barrel, and the bolt locks into place to hold it in. When you pull the trigger to shoot the next round, the hammer drives a steel pin into that primer hard enough to dent it, causing it to fire, ignite the propellant charge and repeat the whole cycle."

That was all a bit much for me to take in, but Michael asked, "How does that primer work?"

Helga countered, "Have you ever hit a bit of gunpowder with a rock?"

We both chuckled and nodded. At one time or another, every adventurous boy filched some gunpowder and experimented with it in secret. Mystery burns or the smell of brimstone about their clothing gave some of them away, but switchings were an accepted hazard in many of our escapades.

She smiled and shook her head slowly. "What I figured. Boys. Well, that's pretty much how it works. Different chemical, same principle."

She held the brass piece up again. "This cartridge is far too big to fit into any of the guns in this room. It's what the Old People called a 'Fifty BMG' or twelve-point-seven by ninety-nine millimeter. Like the cartridge, the guns it's made for are much bigger than these FN-FALs. As an additional safety precaution, I haven't brought any ammunition that will fit any of these guns into this room — and we will **_still_** check that they are not loaded, every time we pick them up. Drill, repetition and habit, until it would take a conscious effort **_not_** to follow proper safety procedures."

She put it on the table and picked up a black metal box, about six inches square and two inches thick. "This is another part of what makes these guns work, the magazine that holds the cartridges. There's a spring in the bottom that pushes them up as the gun uses them. Again, this magazine will not fit in those guns. It's made for the bigger guns that use the Fifty cartridges. You will use it later for practice."

She set that one back down and picked up two similar but smaller boxes, about six inches by three by one. "These are the proper magazines for the FN-FAL." She slid them to us. "You will now practice inserting these _empty_ magazines into the rifles. Turn the rifle onto its left side, so the open port is facing up."

We did that.

" _Now (-) and [-]_ ," she sent us thought-shapes for the two men we hadn't met before, " _will walk you through loading, charging and shooting the FN-FAL automatic rifle. They have a certain talent, and training, that allows them to teach things very rapidly and effectively. Keep your minds open and receptive, even though it might feel a little strange at first_."

The man across from me smiled slightly and nodded. " _Pick up the magazine and look into the open end. See that there are no cartridges inside, only the follower. That large slot in front of the trigger guard is called the magazine well. Hold the magazine with the open end facing the magazine well, with the longer side facing the rifle's stock. Tilt the magazine and insert the upper front corner into the magazine well first, then tilt it back towards the stock while pushing it into the magazine well until you hear and feel a click_."

I listened, and followed his instructions. They had a quality like the thought-shape Helga had sent me, that showed me the way to this room. I knew exactly what every unfamiliar term meant, and what I was supposed to do. It did feel a little strange, but I felt a sense of accomplishment when everything happened just as it was supposed to. The other man had been working with Michael in the same way, and he looked pleased, too.

Both men nodded encouragingly. " _Push that small lever on the right side, in front of the trigger guard, forward. Remove the magazine by tilting it forward and pulling it out_." I did that. " _Pick up the rifle like **this** and keep it pointed downward. Push down on the **bolt catch** , on the left side in front of the trigger guard_."

I heard and felt a heavy KCHAK! as some part shifted inside, and a similar sound from Michael's gun.

" _Good. Now put your right hand around the pistol grip and your left around the fore-grip. Reach up with your right thumb and pull the selector lever down one click to the R position. Put your index finger into the guard and pull the trigger_."

This produced a loud click.

" _Take hold of the charging handle with your left hand, pull it all the way back and let go. Return your hand to the fore-grip and pull the trigger again. This is called **dry-firing** , with no cartridge in the chamber_."

Again I obeyed. Everything about this gun fitted and moved with smooth precision, showing me how crude and primitive our 'muskets' must be.

" _To aim, look through the small hole in the rear sight and align the front sight with the target_."

Michael and I practiced, aiming low down on the far wall.

" _That is the procedure for loading and shooting the FN-FAL automatic rifle. Insert a full magazine, pull the charging handle and release it, set the fire selector to R, aim and pull the trigger_."

He stopped. I shook myself a little, set the selector to S and laid the gun back on the table. As I sat back down I felt almost as if I had been half-asleep, half-dreaming, but I remembered everything clearly.

Helga smiled and said, "You did so well with that, I'm going to show you the other gun we'll be carrying tonight." What she picked up was much smaller, only about eight inches long. "This is what the Old People called a 'Forty-Five automatic pistol, Model nineteen-ninety-one'. The Zealand model differs from the original, which used a magazine holding seven cartridges in a single row. Ours takes a magazine that holds fifteen cartridges in two rows."

We each took one, and the two training specialists led us through their operation, inserting and removing the magazines, pulling back the slides, flipping the safeties on and off, aiming at the wall and dry-firing.

We peered through binoculars, unscrewed the caps of canteens, looked at 'combat knives' that were almost identical to ordinary knives except for saw-like teeth on the blade backs, practiced loading the huge 'Fifty BMG' cartridges into their magazine and popping them out again, then ran through another training session on each gun. Even Michael was beginning to weary of all these interesting new devices.

Helga held up yet another new piece of equipment, a black tube about seven inches long and an inch thick with one enlarged end with what looked like a piece of glass in it. She named it a 'tactical flashlight' and was about to hand them to us when we were interrupted by Petra protesting, loud and bright, " _David, do I **have** to?_"

I heard Rosalind explain patiently, " _David and Michael are going down to save our friends from the people that want to kill us. If you wake up and have an accident, and distract them at the wrong time, they could get badly hurt, or killed. They might not be able to rescue the others if that happens_."

That wasn't enough to satisfy a seven-year-old. She persisted, " _Do you really want me to take this stuff?_ "

I could almost hear our father in my head growling, 'Shut up and take the blessed medicine', and resolved to treat her better than that. " _Yes, I do. I know it's not an easy thing, and it's not something we really want to do, but we think it's for the best. Will you please trust us, and do as we ask?_ "

She digested that for a few seconds, then asked, " _Do you think I should take it, Gary?_ "

He looked at me, surprised and embarrassed, and I shrugged. He nodded to me. " _Yes, Petra, I think you should. For all the reasons Rosalind told you, and for some other reasons we don't want to talk about, or even **think** about right now. We'll explain more of them to you tomorrow, but for now will you trust your brother and your cousin? They both love you, and they would never do anything to hurt you_."

She took some time to consider that, too. " _Everybody thinks I should take it, don't they?_ "

Rosalind and I both sent her positive thought-shapes.

" _Oh, all right. I'm ready, Rosalind_." A few seconds later she said, " _At least it doesn't taste awful_."

I told her, " _Thank you, Petra. I'm sorry we have to do this, and I'll tell you more tomorrow. For now, you're my favorite little sister, and I love you_."

She sent a giggle-shape. " _I'm your **only** little sister, silly_."

I sent her one back. " _You're still my favorite_."

Rosalind sent, " _Would you like me to stay with you until you go to sleep?_ "

She sent an almost contented, " _That would be nice_."

" _Then I'll stay. Tomorrow morning, when you wake up, our friends will be on board with us, and we'll be on our way to Zealand. We'll go to the after lounge, look out the windows, and see things none of us have ever seen before. We'll have to ask Yvonne what all of it is_."

" _That will be nice, too. I like looking outside_." Were her thought-shapes starting to get just a touch fuzzy 'round the edges?

Helga smiled. "I'm glad she's taking it so well. Here are the flashlights; listen closely to your teachers."

I took the flashlight, and paid attention. " _These tactical flashlights are a lot better than lanterns. Hold it in one hand, **not** pointing at anybody's face, and twist the back cap clockwise, just a little_."

I did that, and the front end lit up. I waved it around a little, shined it on Michael's hand-drawn maps, then turned it towards my face and looked into it. That was a mistake. I turned it away hastily but still saw a dozen little burning spots.

He was grinning at me through the spots. " _I'd have told you not to do that, but nobody has ever listened before. You probably won't do it again, though!_ "

No, I wouldn't. The spots were starting to fade and I saw Michael blinking and squinting the same as me.

He went on, " _It's on a low setting now. You twist the **back** cap to adjust brightness, and the **front** to expand or narrow the beam. Twist the cap all the way clockwise, until it stops_."

Gary turned off the room lights, and I was amazed how bright the little flashlights were, like a dozen lanterns each. We turned them wider and narrower, brighter and dimmer for a few minutes.

He told me, " _With practice you'll learn how much light you need for different things. Try to use only that much because the more light you make, the better the enemy can see you. The ring changes colors, but we won't need to do that tonight. Give it a try, though, to get it out of your system_."

It was next to the end cap and I clicked it through green, red, blue, yellow, kind of bluish-green and purplish, and back to normal. Some of the colors made things, and people, look decidedly strange. Gary turned the lights back on, we turned the flashlights off, and we moved on to the next strange thing.

This was a wide, long, thick piece of material with parts sticking out and straps hanging from it. We stood up as directed, and I found that it was heavy, too. My teacher instructed me in wrapping the 'ballistic body armor' around myself, making sure the long flaps hung half-way to my knees, front and back, and pulling the shoulder pads over, fastening them with straps. I felt like I was wearing a barrel with a skirt, and said so. They all laughed.

"That barrel will stop bullets," Helga informed me, chuckling. "Not rifle bullets, but you're well armored against the Forty-Fives and your muskets. You can still be shot in the arms, legs and head, but most of your vital areas are protected. You'll find it's not so bad after a little practice, and that 'skirt' covers a few things I'm sure you _really want_ protected!"

I couldn't argue with her about that. We were handed helmets, and shown how to adjust them to fit. Gary joked, "You _could_ cover your head completely, and get better protection, but all you'd be able to do is wander around bumping into things."

" _Petra? Petra, can you hear me?_ " We caught Rosalind's insistent thoughts. " _All right, she's asleep. I tried words, too. She looks just like a little angel_."

I answered, " _If she didn't hear that, she's **definitely** asleep. We're trying to let her remain an angel, at least a while longer_."

One of our teachers mentioned something about an 'IR flashlight' and Michael dragged a few words out of him. Seeing my confused look, he relented and explained further. "We've got IR and UV flashlights, but since we don't have the vision gear for 'em, they're useless. We didn't even unpack 'em. They shine…colors of light that our eyes can't see. If we've got the IR or UV vision equipment, and the enemy doesn't, we can see just fine in what looks like total darkness to them. It's like fighting a blind man — they don't have a chance."

Michael wryly thought-mumbled something about it not being very sporting.

He jumped all over that. "This ain't a sport, boy, it's war! There's no such thing as cheating. You take, and make, every advantage you can get over the enemy, **_and you don't fight fair!_** Anything less is treason to your own people. _Never_ give the enemy a break. They won't give you any."

He went on, "Now, that gear's really effective when it works, but it's not perfect. It's complex, and hard to make, so there aren't many of them. It doesn't work well in some weather conditions, or extreme cold, and it can fail just when you really need it. We use it, but there's another solution — you learn to fight in the dark. That's something you can't lose, or break; the batteries can't run down; and the enemy can't take it away and use it against you. It's what we'll be doing tonight."

Helga added, "You guys should have a good start on that, coming from…a society without electricity. You should already be able to function fairly well in the dark. Stick with us, follow our directions, and you should do okay, but remember _we're in charge_. If _any_ of us tell you to do something, do it. We'll have a good reason. _Don't_ do anything unless we tell you to. You might get in our way, and then we'd have to work around you, making what is already a difficult and dangerous job even worse. Make no mistake, you're not _trained_. You're just not completely **_un_** -trained, and you're less likely to be more of a danger to your friends than our enemies. If you have to shoot tonight…it will mean we're so deep in the shit it won't make much difference."

All four of them continued working with us, going over each gun twice more, having us handle each piece of equipment again and again because it 'added more depth' to the memories we were forming. We were learning more about _how to learn_ than we'd ever imagined. Helga called it 'a crash course in Soldier 101' and laughed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Michael concentrated and sent out a strong, " _Rachel? Rachel, can you hear me?_ "

The Zealanders had moved their zeppelin to a 'staging point' some forty miles closer to Waknuk after the sun set and it got dark enough. They had set the ship to 'blackout condition' so no lights showed from any of the windows. The two long hallways were lit only by dim bluish glows near the floor, and all lights in all the rooms with windows had been turned off from the 'master electrical panel' in the 'converter room'. Ordinarily it wouldn't inconvenience many people this late at night, but the whole ship felt tense and restless, most of them still awake. Many had gathered in the darkened aft lounge which buzzed with subtle thought-shapes, too quick for me to follow.

Helga explained how vitally important it was that the Norms get no warning of our presence until we reached the Inspector's house, not for our safety but for Sally and Katherine's. She muttered something about how it 'sucks to be a hostage' and told us they were completely vulnerable until we were actually, physically standing guard over them with our guns.

Still, we had to get close enough for Rachel to tell us about Mark. We already dreaded what we might find out, what she'd been so determined to keep from Petra, but we had to know. We couldn't make any plans for picking up Mark without more 'intel' on his situation, and how it might affect our plans to rescue Sally and Katherine.

Michael was standing by the windows, facing north-east. He knew as well as any of us that it wouldn't make any difference, but couldn't bring himself to do anything else. If he couldn't reach Rachel from here, we'd keep moving closer, a few miles at a time, until he could.

Rachel answered immediately, pouring out anguish, " _Oh, Michael, oh, thank God you're here! I've been going round and round in my head…and I had to hold it in, for Petra_ …" She stopped, and collected herself a little. " _They found out about Mark. It must have been Sally or Katherine, but you mustn't blame them! There aren't any thought-shapes, or words either, for what they've been through_ …"

Michael's harsh thought-shapes grated on our minds. " _We don't blame Sally or Katherine. We blame the men that did those things to them in the name of a merciful God. What happened to Mark?_ "

" _He's dead, Michael. His own father killed him. He_ …" Her sending faltered in confusion, then she recovered and went on, " _I'll tell it from the beginning. Jerome Skinner and four men went to Mark's house before dawn yesterday with a writ from the Inspector, revoking his Normalcy Certificate and declaring him a Mutant. One of them has been telling the story to anybody that cares to listen_." She stopped again to compose herself. " _Two went to the back, in case he tried to run, and Skinner knocked on the door. After a few minutes Mark's father opened it, and Skinner told him why they were there, gloating, almost laughing. He said he'd fetch Mark, and shut the door in their faces. A minute later there was a shot, and a minute after that the door opened. Mark's father practically threw his body at them, yelled 'Take him!' and slammed the door again. He was shot in the back of the head_."

Rachel broke down completely, and Michael soothed her. After a minute, she was able to continue. " _Skinner was furious. He screamed at the house for a long time, made all sorts of threats, but nobody answered and the others wouldn't help him break in, and I think he was afraid to face Mark's father alone. They said they had what they came for, and eventually got him to stop, and took Mark's body to the Inspector's house_."

Rachel took another short break, then sent, " _Later, the Inspector went there, and knocked, and acted polite, but Mark's father wouldn't let him in the house so they talked right there on the porch where anybody could hear. The Inspector told him they'd wanted Mark alive, but they couldn't learn anything from him now, and asked if he purposely interfered with their investigation. He said— he said he did it in a rage, because a Mutant had been living in his house all those years, but…I **know** he did it to keep his son from being tortured. People heard Katherine screaming, all day and night, and then wailing for hours, and now they don't hear anything. __There's talk_ _, and it's turning ugly_."

Michael closed his eyes and shook his head woefully. " _Poor Mark. His father did what he had to do. We could never have been in time to save him_."

Rachel went on, " _Skinner's still raving. He's sure Mark's father killed him out of mercy, but they can't prove anything and even if they could, what can they do? Charge him with killing a Mutant?_ " Her thought-shapes were bitter now. " _That's not even a crime, it's the opposite. They're **supposed** to kill us_."

Michael told her forcefully, " _Well, we're not going to give them the chance! We're taking all of you away from this hateful place tonight, to a land where **we** make the rules, where our kind of people can live, safe and free, and never fear the words 'mutant' or 'deviation' again_."

Rosalind asked, " _Why are you so sure Mark's father killed him out of mercy?_ "

" _His wife hasn't left him_." Her thought-shapes were dense with certainty. " _If it was a rage, like he told the Inspector, she'd have walked right out. She wouldn't stay a minute in the same house with the man that murdered her son. She knows why he had to do it, and how much it cost him, and she hasn't left his side_."

Michael hesitated, then sent, " _Have you heard anything more about Sally and Katherine?_ "

We got the sense of a head-shake. " _No. If they'd been moved from the Inspector's house, people would be talking about it. They have to still be there_."

Helga broke in, as delicately as she could manage. " _I hate to put it so callously, but this simplifies the mission. All our people are in the same place, so as long as Rachel makes it to the pick-up, we only have one objective_."

Michael nodded to her and sent to Rachel, " _You have to find a place at least ten feet square without any trees, bushes or big rocks, and wider if you can. They lower a small room on cables from over a hundred feet up, so it's kind of tricky to aim_."

She caught his mental image of the lift and squawked incredulously, " _You're picking me up in a **flying outhouse?!**_ "

That forced a short laugh out of Michael. " _Well, yeah, it does sort of look like one, doesn't it? Don't worry, it's safe. Even Petra wasn't scared_."

" _Fine, then. I don't care. Send down your outhouse, and I'll get in. I just want to get away from this place_." Her next thought-shapes were decisive. " _I'm leaving now_."

He fretted, " _Now? We won't be there for almost two hours_."

" _Yes, now. I want to be on my way out of this, this Hell they've made, where a man had to shoot his own son to save him from the Norms_." Her thought-shapes turned softer, warmer. " _I want to be on my way to you_."

Michael expressed another concern. " _Are you sure you can leave without being seen?_ "

" _Mother's asleep_." There was a sense of amusement and sympathy combined. " _She had a little help. She's been drinking. All of this — somehow it's reminded her about Anne_."

" _What **about** your mother?_" Rosalind asked. " _First Anne, and now you just vanishing_ …"

" _I'm leaving a letter where nobody but Mother can find it_." She sent us:

Dear Mother,

I am sorry, but I have to leave. I'm going away with Michael.  
I'm sure you'll understand why, when you think about it.  
Don't worry about us. We're going to a land a long, long way  
from Labrador, where the government and the Inspectors can  
never hurt us, where people like us can be safe, and happy.  
Anne was one of us, and living in this place destroyed her.  
I think I'll name our first daughter Anne.

All my love, Rachel.

" _All right, then_ ," Michael sent, with some anxiety. " _You've got plenty of time, so start off by going a few hundred yards in the wrong direction. Don't leave any tracks when you head to the pick-up, and hide if you see or hear anybody. When you get there, find a good hide and stay in it until I call you. I've got…a sort of a bad feeling_."

" _So have I. I'll be careful_." She sent a formless surge of wistful longing. " _I know you have work to do, so I'll let you get to it. I'm leaving now, and I'll be there, waiting for you. I can't wait to see you!_ "

Rosalind and I joined him at the windows, comforting each other and extending what we could to Michael. Yet another of us was gone, condemned by those who had been told, perhaps even believed, that monstrous deeds were justified in the cause of Purity. They never thought to question the validity of Purity itself; after all, it was _Purity!_ Of course it was Good, it was the very definition of Good!

We all need definitions of Good and Evil, but where can we get them? From The Bible, and _Repentances_? That was where my father got his, and they told him it was Good to kill his own son and daughter and a nine-year-old girl with a minor foot deformity, to banish his brother to a savage existence in the Fringes, to condemn Half-Uncle Angus's horses because they were 'too big'. They did not seem to be reliable guides, after all.

How do you _test_ your definitions of Good and Evil? Most people didn't. They were told 'this is Good, and that is Evil' from early childhood, and so long as the definitions remained consistent it never occurred to them to wonder whether they were correct or not. It was only when they ran up against a contradiction, or it ran into them, that they would ever think to doubt what they 'knew'.

My first clear contradiction had been Sophie. She was unquestionably Deviational; she did not match the True Image; and yet I could never bring myself to believe that she was an Abomination. She had been a bright, cheerful, brave, honest, outgoing girl, and a very good friend. What had been done to her in the name of Purity was the Abomination.

Rosalind, Michael and the rest of us had not been so clear-cut; the Definition of the True Image had nothing to say about thought-shapes, one way or the other. We didn't _have_ to believe that we were walking violations of the Purity Laws. We had since been declared so by The Authorities, but how did _they_ know they were right? Had they ever tested their own definitions? I did not think so.

It seemed that Good and Evil must be awfully hard to nail down, so what about Right and Wrong? Those are the consequential expressions of our definitions, the actions we take under their guidance. I was sure that what we had done, fleeing for our lives to the Fringes, was Right, and what our pursuers intended to do to us, especially to Petra, was Wrong.

Maybe the Zealanders were on the path to finding better answers. Not perfect ones; Yvonne's use of the plastic webs still troubled me, and certainly Rosalind. Gary seemed to have at least a part of it. If someone tries to kill you and your friends, you stop them. That may not always be Good, but it is definitely Right.

I wouldn't find the answers to all these questions tonight. I would do what I thought was right, maybe even Right, and hope it was also Good.

"Mark's father knew." Michael had been thinking, too.

"That he was one of us?" Rosalind asked. "Why would you think that?"

"He had to suspect, at least," Michael qualified his statement. "If he hadn't already been thinking along those lines, he couldn't have done what he did. No man could come to terms with such a shock, work through the implications, and take action like that in only a minute."

"Ump. You're probably right," I agreed. "And he didn't say anything. He would have _kept_ quiet, too, if they hadn't come for him. His mother must have at least suspected…there's some resistance to the Purity Laws, here and there."

"My mother helped me pack," Rosalind offered. "And I think my father may have…chosen not to notice. There was a fair bit of bumping and thumping about. Getting the tack on the horses wasn't exactly a subtle business, either."

"Maybe things are getting better…" I said tentatively.

"No." Michael's pronouncement was definite. "The government will push back, they have to. They can't allow this…covert resistance to undermine their authority. There will be reprimands to the Inspectors, some of them fired as examples, more operatives like this Skinner used. What we saw was just the start."

That kind of killed the conversation. We stood gazing out into the night in silent remembrance. The thick sliver of moon had almost sunk to the north-west horizon as we stood there, and the world outside looked thoroughly dark to me. When the moon set, the only light would be from the stars and a deep blue glow that reached part-way up the northern sky. I didn't know why Helga insisted that it wasn't dark enough to suit her. Just as I was thinking that, she called.

" _Come to the ready room. There are a few more things to show you, and we're having a light after-supper to help us stay awake_."

I turned to go, but Rosalind caught me, and kissed me. I was a little embarrassed, and I hadn't quite gotten used to our new circumstances. The feud between her father and mine meant nothing to us now, and we didn't have to sneak and hide. We were free to walk together, hold hands, and kiss openly. It was worth a little embarrassment.

The ready room was lit only by a flashlight turned low until I closed the door and somebody switched the lights on. There were more people here, too, and more equipment. The woman who'd shared our ride up in the lift introduced herself as Linda and guided us to one side of the room.

"I'm going to show you how to assemble a field stretcher, just in case you need to. Unroll that and we'll get started." She pointed to a black bundle, about two feet long and five inches thick.

It was held together by two black straps with the same peculiar plastic buckles we'd found on the ballistic armor. We each pinched one to release the little latches, then unrolled the black outer fabric which had been folded up to about two by two feet. A lot of metal bars clattered out of it, along with a folded-up piece of dull green canvas.

Linda nodded. " _Start by sorting them into straight tubes and bent tubes. Unfold the sling and lay it out flat_."

We did that and found that the canvas was about six feet long and two wide, and had folded-over edges and two small parts cut out on each side. There were six round straight bars and four square bent bars, all two feet long and an inch and a half thick, and two six-inch bars covered with some rough black material. Each straight bar had six inches of the same stuff on one end. They were all much lighter than I thought they should be. Linda told us they were made of 'a high-strength aluminum alloy'.

She directed us, " _Each of you insert the small end of one side tube all the way into the grip end of the next tube, then push it into the pocket along the sling's edge. Stop when you get to the first cut-out_."

Looking closer, I saw that the small end was actually a smaller tube inside the other one, sticking out six inches. There was a black ring about an inch wide embedded in a groove in the smaller tube. It slid easily into the next tube until it reached the ring, then took much more force to push the rest of the way. We pushed them through the 'pockets' and stopped.

" _Set one cross-brace across the sling with the ends pointing down_."

Each end of the bar bent at an angle for about eight inches and was fused to the side of a short tube.

" _Slide the side tubes through those rings and start them into the next pocket_."

This pulled the sling almost taut, leaving just a little slack.

" _Insert the last side tube. Push it up to the next cut-out and install another cross-brace_."

We did. There was a noticeable drag as I pushed the black grip section through the first cross-brace.

" _Push both side tubes up until they stick out fifteen centimeters at each end. Slide one cross-brace onto each end, then finish by putting the hand-grips onto the small ends and turn it over_."

We did those things, and I was impressed with the way we had turned a bundle of cloth and metal bars into a strong, lightweight stretcher in less than two minutes. Linda told us with practice we could do it in half a minute, and a person could assemble one alone in less than a minute. All of the Zealanders' equipment we'd seen was similarly designed to be fast and simple to use.

Except for the aluminum alloy, we could have made something very like this stretcher in Labrador, so why hadn't we? Our stretchers were much heavier, harder to use and harder to carry. They didn't raise the patient several inches off the ground, either. I could see why we couldn't make flashlights and automatic rifles, but padded gun-slings and better stretchers should be easily within our reach. We really _were_ a bunch of ignorant hayseeds.

We joined Helga and the Zealanders as they did an 'inventory' of all the equipment we'd be taking to rescue Sally and Katherine. Ten FN-FALs, ten sets of ballistic armor, helmets, harnesses, black shirts and pants, boots…

"Only four stretchers?" I asked.

Helga shook her head, looking a little let down with me. "Do the numbers. If we need more than four stretchers, there won't be enough of us left to carry them."

I nodded sheepishly. Of course. I watched on, trying to understand what they were doing, and _why_.

" _Michael? I'm here. I found a place_." Rachel interrupted our lesson to send us an image and the site looked perfect — a flat, open space about ten by twenty feet on top of the bank, covered with gravel and sparse, scrubby grass. She was hiding in a dense thicket just over the edge, less than fifteen feet away. We could lower the lift, pick her up and be gone in under a minute.

" _That looks good_ ," he answered with relief. " _Did you see anybody about?_ "

" _No. It looks like the whole world is asleep, apart from us_." We got the sense of a relaxed smile from her. " _I can feel the others, those Zealanders, like a warm, welcoming glow. I wonder what it will be like, to live in a whole country full of our kind of people? I think it will be wonderful_."

" _I'm sure it will_ ," Rosalind put in, and I had an impression of her sitting in one of the aft lounge seats, looking out at the stars.

Michael was relaxing, too. " _Wait until you see the zeppelin, their sky-ship. It…it's like the Old People's world made new, everywhere you look is something amazing. They know things we never even dreamed of_."

" _If you say so_." Her tone was a little teasing now.

" _What do you mean?_ " Michael inquired, puzzled.

Rachel was definitely teasing. " _It's just kind of disappointing, that's all. You say you'll show me wonders like the Old People had, and the first one I'll see is a flying outhouse_."

He had to laugh again. " _Just you wait. You have no appreciation for how impressive a flying outhouse can be!_ "

Someone sent a thought-shape, too quick for me to catch. One of the soldiers walked across the room, turned off the lights, then opened the door. A dimly visible figure turned and walked away as the soldier pulled a waist-high shadow into the room, closed the door and turned the lights back on. He had a small wheeled table with stacks of plates and glasses, a large platter of bread, cheese, sliced meat and tomatoes, a metal pitcher of water and a bowl of some wildly Deviational fruit. There were a few normal pears and grapes, but also things that looked like green apples, long curved yellow things, and round bumpy-skinned orange ones.

The Zealanders lined up, took plates, forks and bread, layered it with meat and cheese, and most added a couple of tomato slices. We followed their example. I took a pear, but Michael decided to be more adventurous with one of the long yellow things. He sent Rachel a thought-picture of it.

" _We're moving out to pick up Rachel now. ETA twelve-thirty_ ," Yvonne announced before she could react.

" _You're coming?_ " Rachel asked excitedly.

" _Yes!_ " he sent back. " _We'll be there in about an hour and ten minutes_."

Her thoughts felt relieved. " _I'm so glad to be getting out of this place_."

We and the Zealanders ate quietly, Michael and Rachel chatting occasionally. Linda showed him how to peel the 'banana' and Rachel sent a sort of blush and giggle. We were almost finished…

" _Michael! Oh, Michael, they've found me!_ " We all jumped as Rachel's panicked thought-shapes echoed inside our heads. " _There are men all around me with lanterns, and they're moving closer. They'll be here in minutes. I'm sorry, Michael, David…someone must have seen me, or I left tracks…_ "

" _Are you sure?_ " Michael asked, puzzled. " _Why would they be after you? They can't know—_ "

" _They're not out hunting rabbits at **this** hour_," she replied acerbically. " _There's nothing here to hunt but me_."

Michael believed. He leaped to his feet, frantic. " _Yvonne! Go faster! We have to get to her—_ "

" _No!_ " Helga cut him off sharply. " _She's still sixty kilometers away, remember? It would take almost twenty minutes at our top speed to get there, and what would we do when we did? We have to know what we're heading into, and have a **plan!** Charging in half-cocked and half-assed will only get her killed!_"

He persisted, " _Dammit, Helga, I'll fly this thing there myself if I have to—_ "

" _No, Michael, she's right_." This time Rachel cut him off. " _You can't get to me before they do, and you have to rescue Sally and Katherine first. Once they're safe, you can come for me. They won't kill me, not right away. They wanted Mark alive, remember? I know you're near, and I'll survive as long as I must_."

He cried out to her, desperately, " _I can't just…sit here! I **have** to get you away from there_."

Helga, ever practical, asked, " _How many of them are there? Can you tell me anything about their tactics and disposition? How are they armed?_ "

" _Three…no, four. Four men with lanterns, surrounding me, and less than thirty yards away now. I don't think any of them have guns.…one of them sees me! Oh, Michael, I want so much to see you, to have you take me away from this horrid place forever…I love you, Michael. If this is my last chance, I want you to know that. I love you, and I would be ever so happy with you in that faraway land all filled with our kind of people…_ "

" _They've caught me now…they're pawing me all over, **all** over, oh God, they're disgusting, I've never let anyone touch me like that…oh no…oh my God no, they're going to…no, don't…no, please, noooo…oh Michael, I wanted so much for you to be the one, the only one…my gift to you…oh God no, please don't do this…I'm sorry, Michael…_" Her thought-shapes melted down into thought-sobs, laden with anguish, guilt, shame and despair.

Michael clenched his fists and boiled with impotent rage. The rest of us sat frozen in shock, as helpless as he was. Helga poured out sorrow and compassion and steel-hard resolve. Gary was closed up tight, impossible to read. I reached out to Rosalind for comfort, and provided her with as much as I could. I was thankful for the ship's doctor and the medicine that made Petra sleep through this.

The thought-sobs broke. " _They've stopped_ ," Rachel resumed sending, a little calmer. " _They tore my dress off but the one that's in charge stopped them before they…_ " More thought-sobs, this time filled with relief. " _He told them not here, there's no time, they can have their **fun** with me when they get to the Inspector's house. Could it be the same place, where they've got Sally and Katherine? You'll be there before them, won't you? You won't let them…have me?_"

" _No! I'll kill every last one of those bastards myself!_ " Michael roared in thought-shapes hard as rocks, as if he intended to physically hurl them at the enemy. " _Can't you get away? You know the area, maybe you could—_ "

" _Two of them have got hold of me, and they're still pawing me, ugh, they're such…animals…_ " We could feel her disgust and outrage.

Helga tried to calm Michael, informing us, " _It would make sense for them to keep all their captives together. It simplifies the task of guarding against a few desperate Mutants, and they wouldn't be concerned about any sort of military attack. I'd say it probably is the same place. They took Mark's body there, after all. We'll know more when they start moving_."

Rachel went on, " _Their leader's a nasty bastard. He keeps looking at me with this sickening **hunger** …he's doing it again. I think he just made them stop because he wants to…go first_." Her thoughts twisted with helpless indignation and shame. " _The others won't stop **grabbing** at me. I just can't stand it!_"

" _I don't mean to sound unsympathetic, but a little groping won't kill you. Even a lot won't_ ," Helga told her, still calm and practical. " _There's nothing any of us can do about it right now, so you have to try to put it out of your mind, and do whatever you can to help us, so we can **deal** with those gropey dickheads. You're our spy in the enemy's camp, and everything you tell us is a blow you strike against them. You're fighting them, just a surely as if you were shooting a gun in battle_."

Michael broke in savagely, " _You should **see** the guns we've got, Rachel! They don't have a chance. We can kill them all in two seconds_."

" _I'll try_ ," I could feel Rachel doing her best to put up a brave front. " _Thank_ you," she sent the thought-shape for Helga, " _Michael, I think I can stand it for now, and I'll tell you everything I can. Just don't let them…you **have** to stop them before that!_"

Michael tried to reassure her, and himself. " _We will. At least we've a little more time before we have to worry about **that** …we'll stop them before they can do that, I swear we will_."

" _I know you will, Michael. I can wait, as long as I know you're coming for me_." Her thought-shapes suddenly turned panicky again. " _Michael — I think he can hear me! He keeps looking at me, every time I talk to you, with this horrible creepy little grin, like he knows something nobody else does_."

" _What?!_ " Michael was shocked. " _How can—_ "

" _That could change everything_." Helga cut him off. "Are _you sure he hears you? We have to test that. Does he hear **us?** Look carefully, tell me everything that happens, give me any impressions you can get_."

" _I'm more sure every time. He's creepy-grinning at me again. He was yelling at one of the others, but looked at me as soon as I started_."

" _Does he react in any way to me, when I send to you?_ " Helga persisted. " _Are you sensing anything from him? Try your hardest!_ "

When there was no answer for several seconds Michael got a little panicky, too. " _Rachel! Rachel, are you still there? Answer, please answer me!_ "

" _I'm still here_ ," she reassured them. " _Ooooh, he's looking at me again. I tried listening extra hard, but as far as I can tell he's just like a Norm. He didn't seem to notice you or Michael, either_."

Helga asked, " _What are they doing now?_ "

" _Arguing_ ," she replied. " _They're not happy about their 'fun' getting interrupted. Oh, wow! The other one mouthed off and he punched him. They're all backing down now, and he's promising them all the 'fun' they want with me when they get to the Inspector's_."

Michael thought-growled, " _They're not going to like the 'fun' they find at the Inspector's house, I promise you that_."

" _He pulled a rope out of the saddlebag and threw it at me…he's looking at me like that again…they're tying me up, oh Michael, I don't **like** this, I'm scared, I want you to hold me…_"

I could feel him try his best to send her comfort and reassurance, but his thought-shapes were twisted with fear and fury and bitter hate. She seemed to draw strength from that, as much as the comfort. She was calmer as she reported, " _One of them's been sent off 'to get the others'. They're tying me on the back of the leader's horse, behind the saddle like a dead deer_."

Helga asked, insistently, " _Are you **sure** he doesn't hear us, when we send thoughts to you? Keep quiet for a few seconds, and watch him, and tell me if he reacts. If he doesn't, stay quiet. Yvonne, send to her, very strong_."

Her thought-shapes drove out, filled with concern. " _Rachel, we're coming. I'm anxious to meet you_."

We waited five seconds, with no answer from Rachel. Yvonne sent, " _We're going to save you, and take you with us to Zealand. It's a wonderful place, as good as we can make it_."

Another five seconds passed. Michael called, " _Rachel? Are you still there? Let us know what happened_."

" _Nothing happened. I heard you_ ," with the thought-shape for Yvonne, " _but I'm sure he didn't. Now he's looking at me again, still creepy_."

Michael continued to send her supporting thoughts, mentally holding her hand between her sporadic reports.

" _He's getting into the saddle now…so are the others…we're headed east on top of the bank, at a walk…they must not trust the footing…_ "

We got a few distorted thought-shapes, warped with indignation, before Rachel got out anything understandable. " _He grabbed my ass! Ugh, he's rubbing my legs and…oh, no…that dirty degenerate…oh please no, not there…ha, can't reach it, can you? Oh no, don't you dare stop this horse! Michael, he's got a hand all over me, but the way I'm tied up he can't reach **there** , thank God. It's still so gross…_"

Michael's supporting thoughts got angry, vengeful…

" _We've left the bank, heading up the cart-track towards David's…well, the Strorm farm…at a trot, here on the track…_ "

" _Past the Strorm farm, still headed north-east…they're not going to our Inspector's house, they've passed the turn-off…still north-east at a trot…_ "

" _Ohhh, this is awful. I never noticed how much horses **bounce!** I've ridden them before, but I was always sitting in the saddle, not tied on behind it like a sack of wheat. I may be shaken to pieces before I ever get to the Inspector's house. You'll put me back together, won't you, Michael?_"

" _Michael…why isn't he stopping me? Why is he letting me go on talking to you? All he'd have to do is hit me over the head, and I couldn't tell you what they're up to_."

Helga speculated, " _He must think he's using you for bait, to draw the rest in. He probably plans to wait until they're close to knock you in the head, or kill you, and then trap them when they're calling for you_."

Michael said viciously, " _Well, they're all in for a little **surprise!** They're setting a rabbit-trap to catch tiger-cats, and we know they're coming. We'll be ready for them_."

Rachel grumbled, " _Well, you know where **I'll** be, tied to a horse's ass…_"

Helga said in words, "We still don't know what his range is, and we don't want to find out the hard way. You'll have to break off with Rachel until we've got him."

Michael nodded and sent, reluctantly, " _We have to stop now. We don't know how far he can hear us, and we mustn't let him know we're coming. Keep telling us what's happening. Pretend to be hysterical, calling for help in a panic, so he won't get suspicious_."

Her next thought-shapes were severe. " _ **Pretend** to be hysterical? Who's pretending? I've got the real thing!_"

Helga looked at Michael. "I'm not familiar enough with traveling on horses. How long do you think they'll take to reach the Inspector's house?"

"Hmmm…it's about twelve miles…I don't know anything about their horses, or how far they've already gone tonight, or how hard they're willing to push them, but with three there's a good chance one of them will slow them down." He was thinking hard, using all his experience. "If all three were fresh, and fast, they _could_ make it in under an hour. If they're tired, and one of them's slow, it could take two. My best guess is, somewhere between an hour and a half and an hour forty."

"You're sure we have at least an hour."

"Positive," he said, nodding. "Especially since one of them's carrying an extra hundred and some pounds on his rump. That'll slow him down, right there."

"All right." Helga pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Keep track of their progress, and let me know if they're going faster than you expect. _Yvonne, apologize to Steven for me and push us up to seventy-five KPH. We have sixty kilometers to go and possibly as little as fifty minutes to get there. And…do we have any two-way radios on board?_ "

" _Radios?_ " Yvonne asked, puzzled. " _What for?_ "

" _Their leader can definitely hear us,"_ she sent grimly. " _I don't know how much he hears or what his range is, but we can't use thought-speech around him until we've got him secured. We need another way to coordinate on the ground_."

" _That **is** …inconvenient_," she said. " _Harvey would know_. _Radios wouldn't surprise me; those two are a regular couple of pack-rats._ "

Rachel checked in. " _They're walking again. The horses are tired. Not blown, or even close, but like they've been ridden a long way tonight. This…dick-head gropes me every time, too. I think I'm going to like your friend_ ," she sent Helga's thought-shape again. " _She's given me some marvelous new words!_ "

Michael said, "If they're tired enough to walk again already, they'll take at least an hour and a half. If it was me, I'd take it easy for the first hour. I'm sure the horses have been there before, and they'll be more willing to be pushed harder when they know they're close to feed, water and rest."

Helga nodded, then sent out, " _Listen, everybody, we've got a problem. Most of you have probably heard us confirming it. One of the enemy can hear us when we send thoughts, so we all have to stop until we've taken him prisoner. I know it will be a hardship, but_ ," she sent out a laugh-shape, " _it's his fault, not mine! Harvey, have you got some two-way radios on board? We need an alternate means of communicating_."

He answered immediately, " _Radios…I think so. Give me a few minutes to look_."

" _Bring them to the ready room_." Helga groaned and shook her head. "You see, this is what I hate about this business. We had a perfectly good plan all worked out, and now we have to scrap it and make up another one in unseemly haste because the enemy won't do what they're supposed to do. The bastards are _**sooo**_ inconsiderate. At least we get to kick their asses for causing us so much trouble!"

Rachel came back, worried. " _I can't feel the Zealanders any more. Did something happen?_ "

Michael looked beseechingly at Helga, and she nodded reluctantly. He risked a quick, " _It's okay Rachel, we've just all stopped talking. We don't know what his range is, so we're going silent until this is over. Be brave, and keep talking to me. I'll always be listening_."

" _I will. The horses are still walking, and they're joking about what they're going to do to me. I never heard of most of those things, ugh, they're, they're…maybe your new friend can teach me another good word. No, a bad word! A **very** bad word!_"

A mental silence had fallen over the ship. I had quickly become accustomed to the constant background buzz, until I had barely been aware of it, but I noticed its absence. I caught a few quick little flashes, as people forgot and then cut themselves off, but even those stopped after a few minutes. Michael and I looked at each other, and we both knew how much we wanted to reach out, me to Rosalind and he to Rachel. If it was this hard for us, accustomed to being apart, how must it be for the Zealanders? I felt an immense gratitude to them, going through all of this for us.

Rachel continued to tell us what her captors were doing as they walked and trotted their horses, with sardonic complaints about their behavior, morals, habits, ancestry and where their vile souls would no doubt roast for eternity. It appeared that Michael was right; she was sure they could have pushed the horses harder, but they would be balky about it. They were nearly half-way to their destination now, and we weren't much farther away. The zeppelin had covered more than a day's travel in forty minutes.

There were two knocks at the door. Someone turned off the lights again, and another dim form stepped in. The door closed, the lights came back on, and Harvey stood there with a box.

"I found four radios that'll work together," he told Helga. "Two tac-sets, and two hand-held. Batteries are all full charge, good for at least twelve hours. You wanted them all set to the same freq?"

"Yes, thank you, Harvey," she said, smiling, as he handed her the box. "If you'd take one of the hand-sets to Yvonne, you can go back to biting your fingernails with everybody else. We're about to get busy."

He smiled back and nodded. "Will do." He pulled something out of the box, the lights went out, he left, and they turned back on.

Helga set the box down and announced, "All right people, time to gear up."

The Zealanders started taking their clothes off.

 _All_ of them, Helga, Linda and the other woman too. I had seen the black shirts and pants amongst the other gear, but I hadn't worked through the implications. After a minute they noticed that we were just standing there petrified. Helga glowered at us quite crossly, but I could only stare…she wore a black, lacy _thing_ that hardly covered her breasts at all, and something like it around her hips…the other two women wore similar _things_ in different colors…they all looked like, yet unlike Rosalind…I had never seen such sights before… "Hey! Newbies!" she snapped. "Wake up and get cracking! We don't have all night!"

I found my tongue. "But, you…you're…they're…"

Helga said sarcastically, "Yes, we're all half-naked, and you should be, too. If you can't take your pants off in front of a few women, how do you expect us to believe you can help rescue your friends? If you still want to go on this mission, pull your heads out of your asses and _Gear! Up!_ "

That unfroze me, and Michael started moving too. Gary tossed two black shirts, two pairs of black pants and black socks at us. At least there was no black underwear so we didn't have to take ours off. The things we would learn from the Zealanders were not all going to be easy, or comfortable.

Michael and I survived changing our clothes in the same room with five men and three women. They had guessed at our foot sizes and brought several pairs, so we both found boots that fit. We all looked a little sinister, dressed in black from neck to feet, and we weren't done yet. The ballistic armor went on next, and we wiggled, twisted and walked around to 'settle' it before Gary and Linda made the final adjustments. Aside from the weight, it fit fairly well for a barrel with a skirt. The front flap was cut out a little on both sides so it didn't interfere with walking.

More and more things were added, until I felt like a two-legged pack-horse. I got a bundled-up stretcher, and so did Michael. We were again directed to walk around and settle the gear, and I found that it didn't restrict our movements, get in our way, shift around or make any noise. Even the weight was tolerable once I got used to it. I was impressed with the thought that must have gone into every part, to make it all work together, fit, and be usable.

I picked up an FN-FAL and it felt perfectly natural to keep the rifle pointed down, check the chamber and make sure the selector was on Safe before slinging it barrel-down over my right shoulder. Checking the pistol was equally routine. Our 'drill, repetition and habit' was taking hold already.

We were handed our helmets from earlier, each with a pair of thin black gloves and a black hood with eye and nose holes tossed in. I asked Gary about the absence of a mouth hole.

He told me, "Every hole is something the enemy can see, and your _teeth_ are a dead giveaway." He grimaced and pointed at his. "If we didn't need to see, we'd cover up these white eyeballs too. The material is thin enough to breathe through, and even drink through, but eating through it is something I wouldn't want to try!"

Helga addressed us, sounding almost apologetic. "We were not prepared to face one of our own kind as an enemy. We're so accustomed to instant, perfect communication that no Norm can intercept, or jam, that we're at a bit of a loss now that we won't have it. Well, when you don't have what you want, you make do with what you have. Only three of us have radios, so that makes three teams. I'll take Gary and the Newbies," she winked at us, "Jason, Linda, pick your teammates. We are now lights-out."

The lights were turned off, and the door opened. Gary guided me to a chair and sat beside me as Helga did the same with Michael. The drive motors' drone had faded to a low hum as the zeppelin slowed, and my ears began to trouble me again. I cleared them several times, the way Yvonne had taught me, as my eyes gradually became accustomed to the dim blue light leaking in from the hallway. I heard Helga murmuring to Yvonne on her 'tactical radio' between long silences.

It took me several minutes, but I gathered my resolve and stated, "Miss Helga, I apologize about, um, for…"

"Ogling me in my lingerie?" She chuckled. "Don't worry about it. That just means you're a normal, healthy boy, even if you are a little repressed. Hell, it's nice to know I'm still worth a good ogle. Don't do too much of it though; I don't think your girlfriend would be willing to share!"

I was relieved that she hadn't been offended by my rudeness, but confused about everything else. Surely she couldn't mean what it sounded like…?

" _They're still trotting_ ," Rachel reported. " _I think they're pushing the horses harder now, and they know they're close to the end so they're going along. I trust you, Michael. I know you'll be there, waiting for me. You won't let them… **have** me. You_…" Her thought-shapes became mushy and wobbly, then steadied again. " _You're coming for me. I believe in you, Michael_."

I felt Michael clench his fists and breathe slowly, deliberately. I could see well enough to make out the black shape that was Helga reaching over to squeeze his arm. She had one last announcement. "This new situation means an overflight increases the risk, instead of decreasing it. We're going straight to LZ-4, ETA five minutes. It's a ten-minute walk to the target, and our local expert's best estimate places the enemy about twenty-five minutes out, so we should have ten minutes to prepare them…an _appropriate_ reception." There was a spate of evil chuckles at that.

We sat there for another minute, then Helga said quietly, "Move out." We stood and filed out of the ready room, down the hallway and into the lift in silence. The familiar hallway looked eerie, lit only by dim bluish glows near the floor.

Michael and I were nervous, the rest were focused on the mission. Helga placed a hand on each of our shoulders and gave us a reassuring nod. The last two closed the doors and locked the bar, and Helga rapped sharply on the door, twice. A few seconds later, the lift unlocked and we watched even the dim blue lights slide up the windows until they were hidden from view.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The two people nearest the doors raised the bar and opened them. It was slightly less dark outside, and I heard crickets, distant frogs, and tiny rustlings that were probably mice. As far as I could tell, we were the only people within a mile of this spot.

The first two Zealanders glided out of the lift, spread out, and I could sense them looking alertly in all directions. Helga gave each of us a slight push, telling us we were next. We found out why when the lift started to rise as we stepped out and moved clear. The others followed, the lift rising faster until the last two had to jump down almost eight feet.

I wondered why they were raising the lift before we even got out when I realized that they hadn't. We had just removed about a ton of weight from the zeppelin so it was floating upward. I heard the crewman who'd accompanied us close the doors above us and that was all. The huge ship floated away from LZ-4 in total silence.

We hadn't been idle on the trip down. I had first loaded my pistol by feel, pulled the slide back and released it, clicked on the safety and stowed it, then put a magazine into the FN-FAL, charged and slung that under Gary's scrutiny while Michael did the same under Helga's supervision. Neither of them had any criticism for us. The Zealanders had been doing the same.

The world was a ghostly dark blue, the Zealanders darker black shadows. Helga reported softly, "On the ground, all secure. Moving out." Three shadows moved away up the grassy verge beside a cart-track. Helga followed them and tugged Michael after her. Gary nudged me behind them, and the last three trailed after him.

The Zealanders moved almost silently; Michael and I…didn't. After our third stumble Gary whispered, "Pick your feet up higher. They won't drag through the grass, and you won't trip over every little thing." I did, and it helped. Michael was making less noise, too. We walked on a slight up-grade between a field of wheat and one of beans.

After some ten minutes of walking I began to see larger shapes up ahead; we were approaching the first houses. I was suddenly conscious of the automatic rifle weighing down my right shoulder, and hitched the strap up a little higher. Ahead of me, Michael did something similar. We moved closer and I couldn't see the least hint of light from any of the houses, or hear any sound but the crickets. The Zealanders must not have found anything amiss either, and we kept walking.

My heart was hammering now, and my hands were sweaty and shaking slightly. I knew it was fear, but I didn't really feel _afraid_. I had no urge to stop, or hide, or turn and run back to the zeppelin. What I felt mostly was annoyed; I wished they would _quit_ this nonsense and let me get on with what I needed to do. They ignored me.

We left the track about fifty yards from the nearest house and worked our way around the edge of a field. We passed that one, and the outhouse, then the next. The last three Zealanders split off here, going between the two houses. We crept between the next two, and the lead three went on, around the one ahead of us.

There was another house in front of us now, and we angled left around that one too. So far we hadn't seen a light, or heard a sound we didn't make ourselves besides the crickets. Twenty yards farther on and I saw an ordinary-looking house that I _knew_ was the Inspector's. My Zealander teacher had impressed Michael's maps on my mind and there was no doubt at all.

Helga stopped and raised her right fist, and we stopped too. I was beginning to see her meaning, about it not being dark enough. I could make out her shape and follow her movements if I knew to look for her, and paid attention. I had been taught that meant the enemy could see us, too. She led Michael forward and to our left as Gary guided me to the right, pushed down on my shoulder, and walked away. In seconds I could no longer see any of them. I found myself crouched half-under a large rose bush, thankful that our armor was also proof against thorns.

" _They've turned off onto a side-track_ ," Rachel reported. She sounded, and felt, weary, fearful, and shamed and disgusted by the scandalous way she'd been treated. " _The horses have perked up a little; they must think they're almost there_."

By the maps in my head they were just over a mile away now, so five or six minutes at a trot. My legs were beginning to bother me, just a bit. I shifted a little to relieve the discomfort, and the rose-bush rustled. I froze, thought about it, unslung my rifle, then deliberately worked my way into a position I could remain in for an extended time. The bush rustled some more, but better now than when the riders got closer.

I pointed my automatic rifle in the general direction of the Inspector's house with the barrel slanted down. From here I had an angled view of the Inspector's door and two other houses across a small path, what passed for a side-road in this tiny hamlet. I continued to wait. I saw no evidence that nine other people were lurking about, equipped to unleash mayhem on a scale Labrador hadn't seen since the Old People's time, if then. We each carried six twenty-round magazines for the FN-FALs and four fifteen-round magazines for the pistols. Two hundred men armed with muskets would stand no chance against us.

Between one chirp and the next I became aware of a new sound behind the crickets; hooves, and voices, growing louder. A few seconds later I heard the puffing and blowing sounds of horses ridden hard and long. They continued to get closer and I could hear that the voices were loud, coarse in tone and crude in character. Soon I could hear the words, and I felt ashamed for the whole male gender.

They seemed to be trying to out-do each other in boasting of what they would do to Rachel, things I had never thought of doing to any woman, or anything else either. I was revolted, and I felt sorry for Rachel, who'd been enduring this offensive drivel for more than an hour. I silently prayed that Michael would control himself; I wasn't nearly as close to her and I felt sorely tempted to run out and shoot them all.

I felt a temptation to move, too, to get a better view of what was happening, but I squashed that one just as mercilessly. I had no idea where any of the others were, not even Michael. If Helga or Gary wanted me to move, they would tell me. Right now they expected me to stay where he'd left me and out of their way. I had no role to play in this phase of the mission. Helga and her trained Zealand soldiers were Plan A. Michael and I were, at best, Plan O — for Oh Shit. I waited some more.

" _I see houses ahead, maybe forty yards_ ," Rachel told us. Her thought-shapes were tense, anxious, half-hopeful and half-terrified as she saw the end of her journey, and the rescue or defilement that awaited her. " _Michael, I know you're here. I know you'll save me. I know the Zealanders have a plan_."

The horses slowed to a walk, blowing and grumbling but sounding sort of contented, too. They must have recognized the stable. Presently they stopped, and I tried to block out those uncouth voices. I needn't have bothered; a few seconds later another voice, sounding vastly aggravated, snapped "Shut **_UP!_** If I hear one more word out of you jackasses I'll ram it back down your throat!" That must be the 'nasty bastard' in charge of these Mutant-hunters. In the welcome quiet I heard horses drinking, and a girl whimpering.

" _They're untying me, and groping me too, but I think the leader's nervous. He keeps looking round, shining the lantern, like he thinks there's somebody about. I haven't heard any thoughts from anybody for over an hour, so I wonder what's crawled up **his** ass?_" That wasn't the Rachel I knew. Listening to those three louts must have further broadened her education during the ride. Her mind-voice sounded bold, but the whimpers were telling me a different story.

" _They've got hold of my arms, marching me down a path. They're holding lanterns so at least they can't grope me any more_." She sounded dull now, worn down, longing for this ordeal to be over. " _They needn't worry, I've been tied up so long I couldn't run if Hairy Jack and his whole family jumped out from between the next two houses. I can barely walk_."

I could see a slight glimmer of light on the farthest houses now, and hear boots crunching on dirt, and more whimpers. The light and sound grew closer until finally I saw a man round the last corner, carrying a hooded lantern, casting its light around him. The lantern's light concealed any details, leaving him only a large, shadowy form behind it. Two more figures followed, with a fourth half-stumbling between them.

I had never thought about it before, but the men's lanterns put them at a huge disadvantage. Their light could reveal us to them, if they got within a few yards and shone them in the right direction, but we could literally see them a mile away. I fully understood now why we hadn't used our handy little tactical flashlights at all, despite the risk of tripping over some unseen root or mole hill in the dark. I snuggled up to my friend the rose bush and waited.

The leader did seem nervous, just as Rachel said. He swung the light from side to side, sometimes holding it on one spot as if he thought he almost-saw something, then moving on. He turned it more-or-less towards me, and I rested my thumb on the fire selector and concentrated on being a rose-bush's shadow. If he saw me, that would be just too bad — for him! After a very long few seconds it swung left and right as its holder went on searching the darkness. I moved my thumb away, relieved. Shooting him now wasn't part of the plan.

I opened my senses to their fullest, but I couldn't _feel_ anything from him. As far as I could tell, he was just another Norm. So how had he heard Rachel? I remembered Mary Wender, how I could feel her thoughts a little, but had never managed to send her any of mine. Maybe this fellow was the opposite, able to 'hear' us, but not to 'speak'?

Rachel was sending again, anxiously, almost babbling, " _I think we're almost there. I know you're near, Michael, I know you'll save me, you won't let them… save me, Michael, and take me away from here, show me the sky-ship and its wonders, keep me safe forever…_ "

The strange procession made its way to the Inspector's house, and their leader stopped at the door, carefully shone the lantern right and left, then fumbled out a key and stuck it in the lock. The other two stopped behind him, breathing hoarsely. Molesting Rachel must have been the only thing on their tiny minds because they just stood there gawking eagerly at the door as their leader turned the key. I had barely begun to learn 'Soldier 101' but even I knew they and their lanterns should be facing outwards, watching for threats.

Threats like the six black shadows that melted out of the gloom around them. Before they could react, each one had a phantom at his back and a second at his side jamming a gun barrel under his chin. I barely heard Gary's voice growl, "Any of you assholes make a sound and it'll be your last. Inside." A confused thought-shape escaped from Rachel — surprise, alarm, hope, fear, relief and uncertainty all jumbled up with strain and weariness.

As if they had rehearsed it a hundred times the shadows behind them took their lanterns while preventing them from backing away from the guns. In not more than five seconds they were herded through the door. The only signs of their presence were a dim light from inside the Inspector's house and Rachel, bewildered and swaying on her feet.

I heard pounding steps, and a shadow charged to her, almost tumbling headlong into her from the unfamiliar weight of a soldier's gear. Her next thought-shape was clear and strong: " ** _Michael!_** " She grabbed him like a drowning woman, like she would never let him out of her arms again.

He scrabbled off his helmet and hood, and his voice was half-laugh, half-sob. " **Rachel!** Are you—"

He couldn't go on because Rachel was kissing him with inexperienced but concentrated passion. Her unfocused thoughts were brilliant with gratitude, relief, desire, promise and raw need. I found myself wanting Rosalind, wanting to touch her, hold her, caress her…

When they showed no signs of slowing down, Helga's laugh sounded from the darkness. "Lovely reunion kids, but this is no place for a shag. Save it for the after-party. Newbies, inside."

I stood up, slung my rifle again, bid the rose-bush good night and made my way to the dimly-lit doorway as quietly as I could. Her voice had little effect on Rachel, but Michael suddenly became self-conscious and started peeling her off. He got his mouth free and whispered urgently, "Rachel, we've got to get inside. We're wanted criminals, remember? Will you come with me?"

Her thoughts were still a muddle but she whispered back, "Anywhere with you, Michael." They followed me through the door, down a short hallway and on into the main parlor. Helga slipped out of the night behind us and closed the Inspector's door with barely a click of the latch. The Zealanders had set the captured lanterns on a couple of tables and were tying their three prisoners to sturdy chairs against two of the walls. They seemed not to have gotten over their surprise yet, and were barely protesting. I realized that it had not yet been a minute since the night disgorged these solidified shadows.

They finished in a few more seconds. Helga made a couple of hand motions, and three of them nodded, flowed around us and back outside. Again, I barely heard the door open and close. The parlor was still crowded with the ten of us, plus the furniture. We turned our attention back to the prisoners, and someone moved a lantern closer. They were all strangers to the rest of us, but I recognized one of them.

It was Jerome Skinner.

I started to be surprised, but didn't even get half-way. Of course it was Skinner, coming to the Inspector's house in the middle of the night with a captive and a key. Skinner, able to hear us, but not to send, so that we hadn't been aware of his nature, or the threat we faced. Skinner, that Sally had given herself away trying to communicate with. Only Rosalind, Sally, Katherine and I had ever seen his face, so Rachel hadn't known the 'nasty bastard' leader's identity. I turned to Helga. " _ **That**_ is Jerome Skinner. The same one that captured Sally and Katherine, and tried to take Mark."

Rachel made a startled noise, and I looked. I shouldn't have. She'd told us they tore her dress off, but hadn't mentioned that they had also reduced her shift to a few tattered rags. She caught my gaze, but instead of trying to cover herself or turn away, she lifted her chin slightly, proud and defiant, daring me or anyone else to look on her with shame. She clung to Michael's arm, not as a frightened child or a helpless girl, but the way Rosalind held me, as wife to husband, a declaration that they faced the world and its troubles together. I didn't think Michael knew he was married yet.

Helga made another hand gesture, and the other Zealanders left the room leaving Helga, Rachel, Michael and me with the prisoners. Skinner immediately started pulling at the ropes and rocking, banging the chair against the wall. Helga pulled a gun from a long pocket attached to her belt and pointed it at his face. It was one of their automatic pistols, but hers had a long, thick black tube attached to the end. "Stop that."

Skinner paused, confused, looking at the gun, then at her. "Afraid of me raising a ruckus, bitch? Waking up the neighbors?"

She chuckled patronizingly. "No, you're just annoying me. I'm sure the neighbors are quite accustomed to hearing all manner of noises coming from this house. They won't _want_ to be curious."

Skinner seemed to have figured it out, and sneered at us. "They're not used to hearing guns. You shoot me and they'll sure as hell get curious about _that!_ "

Helga snickered viciously. "They won't hear any shots." One of Skinner's henchmen was silently tilting his chair forward, getting his feet under him, possibly with some idea of bowling her over while she was dealing with their boss. Helga casually pointed the pistol at him and I heard **PTUK! PTUK!** , moderately loud, less than a second apart as she shot him twice in the chest. The chair thunking back made more noise. Two small pieces of metal flew out of the gun, tinged and rattled across the floor. "Forty-fives are subsonic, easy to suppress," she said cryptically. "Talk when we tell you to. Otherwise…" She pointed the gun at his crotch, made a fair imitation of the gun's choked sound, and put it back in its pocket.

Skinner tried to look arrogant, but didn't say anything, or resume banging the chair against the wall. His other henchman goggled at Helga, wide-eyed and thoroughly cowed. We heard doors being opened quietly, closed just as quietly, and saw gleams of light from the Zealanders' flashlights, turned low. Presently we heard other noises, mumbled protests, and a few thumps. Soon after, they brought in a middle-aged man in a night-shirt, blinking sleepily. Before he was quite awake they had him tied to another chair a short distance from Skinner.

Helga turned to him. "Are you the Inspector?"

He looked up at her indignantly. "What? Who are you? Of course I'm the Inspector! This is my house, that was my bedroom, and my bed you dragged me out of, who the hell else would I be?" He looked over at Skinner. "And what the hell are _you_ doing here again, and at this hour?" He chuckled snidely. "Besides tied to that chair? At least they tied _you_ to the beastly thing, not me." He seemed to be mostly awake now, and much more displeased to find Skinner in his parlor than a dead man, a near-naked girl, and six armed intruders completely dressed in black.

Helga said quietly in words, "We're in the Inspector's living room, four prisoners secured without incident. One got froggy, now three prisoners. Survivors are the Inspector, Hired Meat Number Two, and Jerome Skinner, the one that can hear us. Still searching the rest of the house. Hostages not located." She asked the Inspector sternly, "What have you done with the two girls you took prisoner?"

"Done?" the Inspector choked out, bitterly. "I haven't _done_ a damn thing lately. This bastard's got a letter of authority from some pompous ass up in Rigo, so I _do_ what he tells me to do and sign what he tells me to sign. Otherwise, I'd be out of a job." He grimaced at Helga. "Do you know what it's like to be an unemployed former Inspector? I've an idea, and no wish to experience it."

Evidently the Inspector had a rather large bone to pick with Skinner, and just couldn't resist a chance to air his grievances. The other two Zealanders had gone off to finish searching the house, but Gary stayed in the parlor. The Inspector sighed wearily. "I've spent years trying to do my job without being any more unpopular than I have to be, _maybe_ even build up a little goodwill, and now Skinner's gone and wrecked all that in a week. I'll probably have to move to another District, a long way from here, but does he give a shit? Of course not. He's too busy plotting to take over the Strorm farm and be a big-shot."

I shouted, "What? How the—" before I stopped myself.

Skinner looked at me with sudden suspicion. "Who are—"

Helga kicked him sharply in the shin and put her hand on her gun. "When we tell you to, dumbshit. What part of that did you not understand?" Skinner looked insolent, but shut up. That must have hurt; these boots were hard, and fairly heavy. She turned back to the Inspector. "How could he do that?"

He chuckled grimly. "With their only son declared a Mutant, Mary Strorm is the heir, and he means to marry her."

I almost burst out again, but Helga asked with a kind of deadly curiosity, "Why would they agree to marry their heir off to that…villain?"

He looked angry and ashamed. "He'll give her the choice — agree to the marriage, or he'll declare the poor girl as a Mutant."

This time Michael couldn't hold it in. "They'd never believe it!" Skinner looked at him, too, but kept his yap shut.

The Inspector shook his head sadly. "They would. This new Mutation's got us desperate, grasping at straws, because nothing shows. _Anybody_ could be one, and Skinner's got some sort of a nose for it. He found some of them up north of Rigo a few years ago, only they kept that quiet." He glared at Skinner. "Not like the uproar he's making here."

Helga was still curious. "Even so, denouncing the child of a prominent family can't be that easy."

"Did you think we don't already suspect her?" the Inspector asked sourly. "Now that _four_ of her siblings are Mutants, _and_ her cousin, and we haven't forgotten about Joseph Strorm's elder brother. No, we've already got our eye on both of the Strorm sisters, and one word from Skinner would tie the noose."

I stood there stewing in baleful feelings as Helga told the Inspector, "Sounds like a bad deal for the Strorm girl, either way."

"You don't know the half of it," the Inspector said with disgust. "You must be Mutants, but if you're anything like humans, if you're even _sane_ , you can't imagine the things Skinner would do to a wife he could denounce any time he felt like it. I wish _I_ didn't know, but he won't shut up about it. If poor Mary knew the least of it, she'd sooner name _herself_ a Mutant than marry him."

None of us knew quite what to say about that, and the Inspector wasn't done yet. "If only he'd stayed up in Rigo and hunted Mutants there, but _nooo_ , last year he got wind of something out this way somehow, and they gave him leave to investigate. He bought that farm—" He glared at Skinner again. "—which the owner sold _much_ too easily, picked up some of these ruffians for helpers, and started nosing around." He snorted. "They're no more 'farm hands' than I'm the Governor."

Michael grumble-thought, " _Why are we wasting time listening to him complain about Skinner? We have to find Sally and Katherine!_ "

Helga didn't take her eyes off the Inspector as she answered, " _When the enemy's giving you free information, take all you can get. He could tell us something valuable at any time_."

Skinner jerked, and glowered, first at Michael, then at Helga.

The Inspector went on, bitterly, "We were starting to _make_ something of this place. We've almost got the Deviation-rate down to what it is a hundred miles east of here, and now some jumped-up Mutant-sniffer is going to just walk in and reap all the benefits, and I'll be stuck in some miserable dump out in Wild Country."

Somebody reported, " _Found a locked door. Pretty strong one. Breaking it down would take time, and make noise_." Skinner turned that way, too.

Helga interrupted the Inspector's complaints. "What's in your locked room? Where's the key?"

The Inspector shuddered, and closed his eyes. "I haven't been in that room, only Skinner and these 'farm hands'. Not since… Skinner's got the key, and I don't _want_ to know what's in there. What I heard was too much…"

Gary started going through Skinner's clothes, getting complaints, curses and threats, all of which he ignored. He showed his take to Helga — two knives, flint and steel, a short candle, quite a few coins, a heavy, oval loop of iron about four inches long and five keys, no two alike. She nodded, he dumped everything but the keys on an end table and said, "Bring a lantern." Michael gently disengaged from Rachel and picked one up, and we both trailed after Gary.

We trooped through the dining room and into what was obviously the Inspector's office. Gary walked over to a stout-looking door and started trying keys as Michael held the lantern up and I looked on. The second key turned the lock, he opened the door, and I followed him into the room.

The first thing I noticed was the smell, like an outhouse. The second was someone's labored breathing. Michael followed me in with the lantern, and I could see Sally and Katherine. They lay on a pair of narrow, waist-high beds about a yard apart, covered with rough blankets, Sally nearest the door. Michael set the lantern on a small table near Sally's head and turned up the wick. A couple of flies buzzed up, disturbed by our movements.

Sally's arms were tied to the bed-posts with ropes as thick as my thumb that had rubbed her wrists raw, with just a few inches of slack. Someone took the blanket off and we found that she was naked and badly bruised. What she lay on wasn't much of a bed; four thick posts supported a shallow box filled with straw and covered by a filthy sheet. She had evidently been tied there for several days, and someone had scraped away the filth but never changed the sheet. Her ankles were tied to the other two posts and also rubbed raw. I looked away, embarrassed to be seeing her like this, but not before noticing the dried blood between her legs…

I looked only at her face. "Sally. Sally!" Her eyes were closed, and she did not answer. She seemed to be deeply asleep. I sent thought-shapes at her, as hard as I could, but she didn't answer those either. I doubted she'd hear Petra at full volume. The two Zealanders were untying her, so I moved on to Katherine. Hers was the troubled breathing I'd heard.

The lantern's light was dimmer here, but still it showed me far too much. I had known, in a general way, that she'd been tortured, but nothing could have prepared me for seeing the reality. Her face was bruised much worse than Sally's, both eyes swelled shut, and patches of her hair had been ripped out, leaving oozing sores. Her wrists were open wounds, the ropes crusted with blood; most of her fingers were broken, the fingernails torn off. I reluctantly took hold of the blanket, dreading what I might find under it, and lifted it off her. A few more flies took wing, and I cried out. Her body was covered with cuts and burns, and strips of skin had been torn off in places. Her legs were swollen up to her knees, the skin shiny and red, and her feet…they didn't look like feet. My eyes, and my brain, couldn't make sense of what I saw. There was brown, and red, and yellowish-white things that had to be bones…I looked away, sickened.

Gary had removed his helmet and hood and pulled out his combat knife. He was bending over her, radiating rage and hate and anguish with an intensity that should have burned the house down in seconds, and tenderly, delicately cutting the ropes away from her wrists with an iron control that made his rage all the more frightful. Behind us, the others had assembled a stretcher and were picking Sally up and setting her on it. Michael had moved away from Katherine, and was looking down.

I took a step, and saw a body that had to be Mark's beside the wall, lying on his back. His father's bullet had blown a big hole in the middle of his face, a gruesome sight indeed, but one that moved me far less than Katherine's injuries. I had only seen Mark once, briefly, and this unfamiliar corpse affected me hardly at all. I turned away, but Michael seemed unable to do the same.

Gary had moved to Katherine's feet, but her flesh had swelled up over the ropes and I didn't see how he could remove them without hurting her even more. He didn't try, just cut them a few inches from her ankles. The others were waiting with another stretcher, and they and Gary carefully moved her to it.

There was a table beside her, too, and on it were…tools. Knives, and tongs, and things like I had seen the farriers use on horses' hooves, and others I had never seen before. Most of them, and the table, were stained with blood. Gary saw it all, and picked up a knife with about a four-inch blade, raising more flies. He'd put his own knife away, and was still burning so hard I was surprised not to see smoke rising from him.

Michael was still staring at Mark's body, and to my surprise it was Gary who asked gently, "Do you want to take your friend back to the ship?"

Michael didn't reply for so long I wondered if he'd heard it. Finally he sent, " _No. It wouldn't do him any good now. Mark's not there any more. That's just a body that used to be his_." He looked up, and although his thoughts were distorted with grief, they were certain. " _Mark would understand. He wouldn't want to slow us down. Sally and Katherine are more important_."

It occurred to me then that we had a much keener understanding of life and death than Norms. They only ever saw the outside, the body. They couldn't see the person within. To Norms, a live person and a dead body appeared identical. To us — even in Sally and Katherine's current state I could feel a faint sense of _presence_ , like a tiny glow of light, a whisper of sound. A little _something_ that told me they were still here, still important to us, a _something_ that was gone from Mark's body forever.

To Norms, the body was still the person. It had to be cared for, tended to, 'laid to rest' with elaborate ritual and ceremony. To us, a dead body was…just a dead body. No more significant than an out-grown suit of clothes, and considerably more inconvenient. Nothing these Norms did to it, or didn't, would make any difference to Mark now.

The others had carried Sally out of the room, and now came back for Katherine. Gary spun and stalked out, a terrifying knot of contained violence, followed by Michael and the two men with Katherine's stretcher. I brought up the rear, picking up the lantern on the way. Mark didn't need it. I closed the door behind me, as if to hold back the room's horrors.

Back in the parlor, furniture had been pushed aside to make a space. Sally lay there with one of the Zealanders working on her wrists. He had a package beside him full of cloths, shiny metal instruments, little bottles full of clear and colored liquids, and other things I couldn't identify. The other man was opening a similar package. I set the lantern on a handy table to better light their work, and they both nodded gratefully. He pulled things from his 'first aid kit' and started tending to Katherine. In a few seconds he was cautiously dabbing at her ruined fingers with a brown-stained piece of cloth.

The Inspector watched with horror and disgust, but Skinner looked on with an evil, evil smirk. Rachel was now wearing a blue dress and had what looked like a colorful rolled-up blanket over her shoulder. I vaguely recalled one of Skinner's stooges carrying it the same way. She seemed to have shrunk into herself, her face buried in Michael's chest.

Gary stood in front of Skinner and said, "Well then, what do we have here?" in a perfectly calm, level voice. Then he thought, " _You **can** hear us, can't you?_" Skinner jerked, and looked up at him with surprise, then hate. Gary pressed on, " _Answer me, asshole, I asked you a question!_ " When Skinner just glared at him, he lashed out with his left fist, knocking Skinner's head against the wall. His right still held the knife he'd picked up. " _Answer!_ "

He pulled his fist back again, then stopped when I sent, " _I don't think he's really hearing you_."

Skinner's head whipped around and he glared at me. "How many more of you fucking mind-reading Mutants are there?!"

Gary snickered nastily. "A lot more. A whole lot." He asked me, " _What do you mean? He seems to hear us just fine_."

I was trying to figure out how to convey my vague idea when Helga sent, " _He hears us, but he doesn't seem to understand us_." She thought a little more. " _Like it's a foreign language. He hears the voices, but can't understand the words_."

Gary regarded his subject speculatively. " _Permission to test your theory, Major?_ "

Helga nodded and said in words, "Go ahead."

He glared at Skinner and thought, very loudly and distinctly, " _I'm going to stab you in the arm, in three seconds. Two. One_." He stuck the knife a little way into Skinner's left forearm and pulled it out. Blood ran from the cut, slowly. Skinner jumped in the chair, surprised and outraged, and shouted some words I'd been told never, ever to say, and some I'd never heard before.

Michael chuckled spitefully. " _At least that got a reaction_." Skinner shut up and scowled at him.

Gary repeated his previous thought exactly. " _I'm going to stab you in the arm, in three seconds. Two. One_." Skinner seemed almost as surprised the second time, if less vociferous. Only a few choice curses.

Helga studied him. " _I don't think he hears much of anything. Maybe just noise, like a barking dog_."

Rachel sent, " _Actually, that could be. He looked at me, but it was the same look no matter what I was saying. And, I don't think he can send. I listened as hard as I could, and got nothing_." Skinner looked at her with a kind of weary aggravation.

" _So did I_ ," I told her. " _But he seemed to have some sort of feeling, that we were about. He kept looking around, like he was nervous, and pointed that lantern almost at me for five_ _or_ _six_ _seconds_."

Apparently Helga had another idea. " _Perimeter patrol, report. Five second intervals, closest to farthest_."

We heard, " _All clear_." " _No activity_." " _All quiet_." " _No movement_."

Skinner's head jerked around at all four reports with a look of alarm, quickly covered up.

Helga looked dissatisfied and sort of thought-muttered, " _That didn't tell me much_." She shifted her attention and called, " _Yvonne, we've found Sally and Katherine and we're administering first aid. We've still got the three prisoners to deal with. Katherine looks to be in critical condition, tell Doctor Jan to be ready for something that will give her nightmares. It will me, at least. We've also found a primitive hypodermic kit with some unknown drugs, partially used. We should be at the primary extraction LZ in twenty minutes. How far away are you?_ "

Yvonne's strong thought-shapes came to us, as clearly as ever. " _We're seven kilometers out. We'll start moving when you do, and we'll be there. Rosalind is jittery, but holding up better now she knows her boyfriend is okay_."

Rosalind spoke for herself a second later, relieved. " _I'm glad you're all right, David. It was hard, not knowing. Hurry back_."

I was relieved to hear her, too. " _I will. We should be on board in half an hour, if nothing else happens. I'll see you then_." I could feel the comforting glow and buzz coming back as the other Zealanders were released from their silence.

Skinner hadn't reacted. Helga nodded, satisfied. " _So, that seems to be beyond your range. Still, it leaves room for you to hear us from quite a long distance. No wonder you found so many of us, and took them by surprise. Petra…even you could have sensed her from many hundreds of kilometers away, very possibly all the way from Rigolet_."

I could feel something volcanic building up inside of Michael. He held Rachel closer and accused Jerome Skinner, "You. It was all you. Everything we've been through, our friends, all those people who died in the Fringes, it's all your doing."

Skinner looked at Michael, and snarled, "So, I was right about you. Chickened out and turned back, did you, you damned Mutant? Or did Satan tell you I'd found out another of your kind?" He made a sort of self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess we both missed out on that one."

Michael seethed, but seemed unable to put anything into words, or thought-shapes either.

Skinner kept on, "There's even more of you freaks than I thought, but no matter. We've cleaned out the Fringes by now, so you've got no place left to hide. God will deliver you into our hands in His own time, and then I'll teach you what becomes of Satan's spawn when they defile the Earth, like I taught these sluts. I'll start with that one. I'll even let you watch, before it's your turn."

Michael started to push Rachel away, reaching for his combat knife, but Gary put a hand out. He was still howling inside, but his thoughts were clear. " _No. We're not done yet, and then…better I do it. I've got no innocence left to lose_." Michael tried to resist, but Gary's mad combination of icy calm over burning rage was a fearsome thing. He nodded reluctantly, and put his arms back around Rachel.

I had something to say, too. I pulled off my own helmet and hood. "What were you going to do to Mary, you maggot?"

Finally, something got through Skinner's arrogance. He stared at me in shock. "Strorm? Y-you can't be here! You're in the Fringes! You're supposed to be dead!"

I laughed maliciously. "We _were_ in the Fringes, three hours ago. Now we're here. In another hour we'll be gone from Labrador forever. But it won't matter to _you_ because you'll be dead. You've got no idea what you were up against, Skinner. Knowledge and machines from the Old People's time."

Michael hitched up his FN-FAL. "And weapons. Most of the men you sent after us are dead, and most of the Fringes folk too. It took less than five minutes, and none of them ever had a chance."

"Filthy Mutants!" Skinner spat at us.

Michael grinned malevolently. "Don't you get it, Skinner? Are you really too stupid to figure it out? Why you can sort-of hear us? You're a Mutant, too, just like us, only you're broken—"

"Lies! Devil-spawn! You're—"

Gary punched him again, hard. "Shut it. He's right, you're a broken Mutant. It's the only answer."

Michael drove on, relentlessly. "You're a Mutant, but half-way, like a calf with two heads, only the second one's got no brain in it. You can never know the things we know. There's a whole country full of people like us, people who can speak thoughts, and hear them, thousands of miles from here. That's where we're going. None of you can stop us, and if you managed to get there, and try to impose your Purity on us, you'd stand no more chance than those poor Deviations in the Fringes."

Skinner started to protest, but Gary's fist moved and he flinched back.

The Inspector had been listening too, with growing dismay, and he asked, "Is all that true? Are the men we sent dead? Is Skinner really a Mutant?"

Michael looked at him, and his vehemence subsided. "Almost all the ones that crossed the river. A dozen or so stayed back to guard the encampment, a few more were out as scouts, but at least fifty are dead. I'm…not really sorry about it, given why they were there but, it _was_ a tragedy."

He looked at me. "What about Joseph Strorm?"

I replied, "His brother killed him. Then died himself, seconds later."

"And the rest?"

Michael answered, "Killed by the Zealanders, along with most of the Fringes folk, using something you wouldn't understand, or believe. I don't really understand it myself."

The Inspector turned to Helga, horrified. "Is that true? Are you using forbidden knowledge, building proscribed machines, blasphemous weapons?"

She shrugged. "We've rediscovered a lot of the Old People's knowledge, and gone on to learn things even they didn't know. There's nothing 'blasphemous' about it. Good or evil is in how it's used."

"No, no, you have to stop!" he beseeched her. "You'll bring on another Tribulation, and this one _will_ be the end of us!"

Helga sighed and took off her own helmet and hood. "You've got everything wrong. I don't know if your leaders are lying to you, or simply mistaken themselves, but the truth is not what you've been told. What you call Tribulation was a terrible war the Old People fought amongst themselves, with god-like weapons and no sanity at all. Divine retribution had nothing to do with it; they destroyed themselves and nearly took the whole world with them. We won't follow them down that road."

Skinner had been watching the Inspector with growing disdain. "Idiot! They've confessed to being Satan's minions; how can you listen to their lies? Your soul is already stained with your concern for the Devil's daughters, now—"

The Inspector was reaching the limits of his patience. He snapped at Skinner, "What is the world coming to, when the Devil's minions behave more decently than a man of God?" Gary pulled his fist back, and Skinner swallowed whatever retorts he might have had. The Inspector mused, " _Are_ you a man of God, though?" He returned his attention to Helga. "Is Skinner really a Mutant?" Skinner glowered at him malignantly but kept still.

Helga pursed her lips. "He has the same telepathic ability we have, but only in part. He can sense us over short distances when we send thoughts, but can't send them himself. We're almost certain he can't understand our thoughts, either. You're the Inspector, does that make him a Mutant?"

Skinner couldn't take that. "I was given a Gift from God, to root out your kind, and you—"

Gary punched him again. "I think everybody's as tired of hearing you as I am. Open your gob again without permission and I'll stick something in it." He waggled the torture-knife.

The Inspector looked grateful for the intervention. He shook his head. "I…I'm not sure."

Helga asked, "If a man has six fingers on his right hand, does that make him a Mutant?"

Back on familiar ground, the Inspector replied confidently, "Yes. Any Deviation from the True Image is a Mutant."

She went on, "Is there any _fraction_ of an extra finger that would be too little to make him a Mutant?"

The Inspector was still certain. "No. Any Deviation, even the least part of one, makes him a Mutant."

She concluded, "So if we are Mutants, Skinner is also a Mutant. If he's not a Mutant, neither are we."

The Inspector was less sure, but answered, "That would follow, yes."

Michael asked insistently, "But _are_ we Mutants? What part of the True Image do we not match?"

The Inspector replied doggedly, "That's not for me to say. You've been declared Mutants by the Government."

Helga chuckled. "Yeah, but you're still human. You have to have your own opinion; what do _you_ think?"

He shook his head wearily. "I don't know what to think any more."

She chuckled again. "At least you're honest. And more important, honest with yourself."

He nailed Skinner with a penetrating look. "But they _have_ declared you all Mutants, and they have to know that makes you one too. And still they let you walk free among us, give you authority, allow you to indulge your perversions, because they find you _useful_. Whether they are right or wrong, it proves they're willing to make a deal with the Devil."

"I am no Mutant," Skinner growled, looking defiantly at Gary. He let it pass.

Michael rounded on him, angrily, "You are! But what's **_wrong_** with you is nothing to do with being a Mutant. You're evil inside, you hurt everybody around you. You're a worse monster than any Mutant. I don't even know **_what_** you are."

Helga grimaced. " _I_ know. Jerome Skinner is a sociopath, possibly a full-blown psychopath. That's what the Old People called those with no conscience, no sense of right and wrong and the things they're not supposed to do to people. If they're caught early, some can be treated, indoctrinated to at least be almost normal. But when they're this advanced, this habituated to sadism and depravity, there's only one thing to be done." She sent to Gary, " _Do it_."

"You tortured those girls." Gary grabbed Skinner's nose and forced him to look up. "Is that how you get your jollies, you sick fuck? How many more have you tortured? How many more would you torture, if we let you live? Did you enjoy it, shithead? Well, I'm gonna enjoy this." He stuck the knife that had been used to torture Katherine under Skinner's chin, shoved it up as far as it would go, and took his hands away. Jerome Skinner's expression turned to shock and disbelief as he jerked, shuddered and made strangling noises for more than a minute under Gary's cold glare.

Helga was watching, too. "Because we have conscience, because we make the distinction between right and wrong, those like him consider us weak. They never believe we can be just as cold and ruthless as they are when we need to be, and they're always surprised when they find out how wrong they were." She indicated Skinner's last 'farm hand' and addressed the Inspector. "Did that one actively participate in torturing those two girls?"

The Inspector looked away from Skinner and up at her, shocked and frightened, but he answered steadily, "They all did. The torture, and…the other things. What they did was shameful, and in _my_ house too. I'm ashamed for not doing anything about it, but nothing I did would have stopped them. What they've been doing…it was not God's work."

The 'farm hand' was still staring petrified at Skinner when she pulled out her 'suppressed' pistol and calmly shot him twice in the chest. She put it away again and looked down, and I followed her gaze to the two black-clad figures closing their first aid kits.

Sally's wrists and ankles were covered by clean greenish-brown bandages, and she wore others here and there. Katherine's hands and wrists were completely wrapped up, there were patches of cloth all over her body, but it seemed her legs were too much for anything in the little kits. Her breathing might be a tiny bit easier, or not. They spread the thin, black blankets the stretchers had been wrapped in over both girls, pulled up to their chins.

Helga looked at us. " _Gear up_."

We all put our hoods and helmets back on and waited for Gary. After Skinner…stopped, he stuck a finger under the jaw for a few seconds, then turned away. "It's done."

Without another word, or thought-shape, he picked up his hood and helmet, put them on, crouched in front of Katherine's stretcher, jerked his head at Michael, who unwound from Rachel and took the foot end, quietly chanted, "Two, one, lift," and they picked her up more-or-less together. One of the other men went to Sally's stretcher, and I took her feet. We raised her a little more smoothly, now that I had seen how it was done.

The Inspector looked up at Helga again. "What about me?" He was clearly afraid of this Mutant woman with her quiet gun, but he regarded her unflinchingly, making no attempt either to justify himself or beg for his life.

She shook her head. "You haven't done anything to us bad enough to warrant killing you, Inspector. Venting our wrath on you for the sins of others wouldn't be justice, or even revenge, but just lashing out indiscriminately, inflicting pain at random because we've been hurt. We have to be better than that. We have to believe it, and live it, every day, if we're to build a better world than the one the Old People destroyed. If we're not to make the same mistakes they did all over again, and come to the same end."

Helga concluded with, "We're leaving now. We're going back to our home-land, and you'll never see us again. You should wait here quietly until we're long gone. If you get loose, and raise an alarm, a lot of you Norms will die for nothing. These guns," she raised her FN-FAL, "were made by the Old People. Each one can shoot a hundred bullets in half a minute. There are ten of us. Add it up."

He shook his head wearily. "The last thing I want is for any more people to die tonight. Except for Skinner's bunch. I don't care if you're Deviations, Mutants, Abominations, or the Devil himself, you just made the world a better place. I can't wish you luck, but I hope you get gone from here without killing any good people. These ropes aren't too tight, and I have a great deal to think about. I'm sure somebody will untie me in the morning."

As Helga put her hood and helmet back on I said to him, "Tell everybody we've gone to a land thousands of miles from here in a huge flying ship. We've got machines and weapons from the Old People's time, so even if you found us you couldn't threaten us. We're free of you forever." I couldn't specifically tell him to let Uncle Axel know we were all right, but that should get the message across.

She nodded to me and called, " _Perimeter guard, we're moving out. Clear the way to LZ-1 for extraction. Yvonne, we're moving. ETA fifteen minutes_."

She answered instantly, her thought-shapes tinged with relief. " _We're on our way. We'll meet you there_."

Michael asked Rachel, "The LZ is over half a mile away. Can you make it?"

She looked at him with determination. " _I could walk a hundred miles to get away from here. Nothing can stop me_."

We filed out of the house and Helga shut the door behind us. We took a different path, between different houses, from the way we had come in, preceded and followed by silent black shadows. Only we stretcher-bearers made any noise, and Rachel, walking beside Michael. Gary thought to us, " _I lied. I didn't enjoy it. But I wanted to do it, for these two girls, and all the others_."

As we left the last house behind, I heard the woman I knew only by her thought-shape report, " _Helga, I've got activity. Four horses, with riders, approaching fast from the south-west, over twenty KPH_."

" _Acknowledge, four, south-west_ ," Helga replied. " _Yvonne, we've got four more, incoming. Stay clear until we know what we're dealing with_." She turned her attention to us. " _Stop beside that house, set down stretchers, prepare to defend-in-place. Michael, David, you are clear to engage if necessary_."

Yvonne came back in a few seconds, " _Right, holding position and altitude, five kilometers out. Standing by for your word. Any idea who they are?_ "

Helga said thoughtfully, " _They could be 'the others' Rachel mentioned. The rest of Skinner's gang_."

I could hear the hooves now, a confused drumming that could be either a canter or a gallop, moving in fast. In less than a minute they were among the houses, the hoof-beats echoing and even more confused before they slowed to a walk. I heard voices now, too.

" _I think we can call that one definite_ ," came an update. " _They're talking about Skinner, hoping they're not too late to get in on raping 'the Mutant girl'. What should we do with them?_ "

Helga's thought-shapes were cold and hard. " _We have no use for them. Kill them. The Inspector told me they all participated in raping and torturing Sally and Katherine_."

She sent back steadily, " _Orders confirmed, Major. Soon as they're clear of the horses_."

What manner of foul creatures would come so far, so late at night, and in such a hurry, to rape Rachel? It was satisfying to know they would soon be dead, though I had no desire to see it. I'd seen three men die tonight, and that was more than enough. They'd been evil, and it had been necessary, even Right, but it had not been Good.

The horses stopped, the voices didn't. They sounded much like the two that had come with Skinner, and no one told them to shut up. Stop they did, though, half a minute later, with a couple of surprised exclamations, and I might have heard, maybe, the shots of suppressed .45 automatic pistols.

" _All four down_ ," I heard, followed shortly by what was definitely a suppressed .45. " _All four dead_."

Helga blew out a long breath. " _Bandits dealt with, Yvonne, you are clear to approach. Up stretchers, move out for LZ-1. Let's get out of this place, and hope we don't run into anything else_." I agreed with her completely.

After five minutes on the march a figure moved in to the front of Sally's stretcher and deftly switched places with the man carrying it, without even slowing down. Another one did the same at Katherine's, and Gary dropped back to walk beside me, looking at Sally and working fatigue out of his hands. The rage was mostly gone, replaced by sorrow and regret, but still with that rigid control. He was a hard one to figure out.

Five more minutes of trudging, another bearer-swap. My hands and arms were tiring, but I had the light end. If four people had to be encumbered carrying stretchers, two of them should be Michael and I. We were their friends, and the least useful if something went wrong.

The last few minutes were the longest. My hands ached, my arms burned, and my legs were tiring when Helga stopped. We spread out around her as she pulled out her flashlight and shone it briefly upward. " _We're here. LZ is cold_."

I could feel the welcoming glow of minds above us, see a patch of sky without stars, hear slight sounds as the great ship lowered the lift. After a minute there was a thump, I heard the bar raise and the doors open, and half-saw them carrying Katherine's stretcher to it as we moved in. The man on the other end of Sally's was swinging around the lift to the left. I was puzzled until I saw that there was a second lift standing about ten yards behind it. I caught a thought, " _A lift secure_."

We carried Sally inside, set the stretcher down, carefully clear of the doors, and three other shadows slipped inside with us. Someone closed the doors, dropped the bar, and sent, " _B lift secure_." A few seconds later the box tilted and swayed slightly, rising silently towards the zeppelin. A few hours ago Rosalind and I had forever left Labrador behind in our minds; now the lift was taking me from it physically for the last time.

Soon I heard the familiar two clunks which Michael had told us were locking pawls that would hold the lift secure even if all eight cables broke at once, felt the rising pressure in my ears, saw the doors open on the dimly-lit port passageway, and knew we were safely away. Gary and I picked up Sally's stretcher. My hands and arms were tired, and a little sore, but it was only a short walk to sick-bay.

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

I know what you're thinking. 'What the…? Mary didn't have four siblings declared Mutants!'  
Ah, but she did. It's all in one line in Chapter 7, as they wait for the Inspector to come and certify Petra:

The suspense was aggravated by everyone's knowledge that on the last two similar occasions there had been no certificate forthcoming.

Two unnamed, unacknowledged children, declared Mutant at birth, before Petra. I'm quite sure the Inspectors keep records of such things.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Gary bumped a rectangular metal plate with his elbow and the doors slid open. I heard a babble of rapid, urgent voices coming from behind a curtain ahead and to our right, past the end of a row of four beds. A man in a long white coat hurried to us, pulled a spidery metal thing from beside the door, opened it and pushed it under the stretcher. Gary set his end down, the man guided my end, I lowered it a few inches and it stopped. The thing had wheels, and we rolled the stretcher to the third bed, which was the same height as the stretcher with only a clean white sheet and a pillow. He pulled the blanket off, shook his head sadly at the bruises, gestured, and the three of us lifted and slid Sally onto the bed.

He looked at Gary. "Unresponsive?"

Gary nodded. "Found her that way. We don't know what's been done to her, but she's not as bad as Katherine, at least physically."

At the word 'Katherine' a look of pain crossed the man's face and he glanced at the curtain. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

Gary shook his head. "Not really. We found them, did some minimal first aid, and brought them to the ship."

He looked at me. "They've been…captives…for four days?"

I looked at both of them in surprise. "It's been just over four days. They were grabbed in the middle of the night, too. How is Katherine?"

The look of pain was back. "Not good," he said reluctantly. "The injuries alone are bad enough, but she's got raging infections in some of them. They've found fly eggs, and flies are the filthiest things…I just don't know. We'll do our best, but I can't make any promises."

Gary confirmed, "There were flies in the room. Not swarms or anything, but at least a dozen or so." He reached out and pulled the rolling stretcher away, then bumped me with it. "Come on. There's nothing we can do here but get in their way. It's up to the doctors and medics now."

I wanted to protest, but I knew he was right. The man was wrapping a long black band around Sally's arm with quick, sure movements as I turned back towards the doors. Gary picked the stretcher up in one hand, folded the wheeled thing with the other, and pushed it back to its place beside the door with a few others of its kind. He tapped the metal plate on this side, the doors opened, and he led the way to the ready room.

The lights were on when he opened the door and the place was full of people taking stuff off. Guns, harnesses, armor and equipment were lined up almost as neatly as before we put them on. I unslung my FN-FAL, removed the magazine and returned it to its pocket, then pulled back the charging handle twice and released it, watching where the ejected cartridge went, followed it and picked it up. I set the rifle with the others, then got out the pistol, removed and stowed its magazine, pulled back the slide and locked it open. Gary caught the flying cartridge and handed it to me.

Michael was almost finished 'gearing down' as I approached and he asked, "Katherine?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. The medic said they'd do their best, but no promises. What did they tell you?"

"Not even that much. Two people in white coats were outside the lift with some metal thing on wheels. We put the stretcher on it and they took off."

Rachel stood just far enough from him not to get in his way, clutching the blanket roll on her shoulder and gazing wide-eyed around the ready room. She probably wasn't supposed to be in here, but nobody was making anything of it.

Michael and Rachel left the room as Gary and I took our gear off and added each piece to the growing stacks until nothing remained but the black pants, shirt and boots. He handed me the clothes I'd worn here. "That's it. Keep the outfit, we've got spares. Best thing you can do now is get some sleep. At least go to bed and close your eyes. Even if you can't sleep, some rest will help."

When I opened the ready room door, the passageway lights were low but normal, and the meal-room was lit brightly by large glowing rectangular panels in the ceiling. Our need for blacking out the zeppelin was over. A few people were eating late, late snacks, but the place was almost empty. I continued on and arrived, finally, at the door to our room.

 ** _Our room_**. I had thought it before, in passing, but now I recognized the significance of the line I had crossed without realizing it. Rosalind and I would share this room, all the way back to Zealand. When we got there, we would share whatever arrangements the Zealanders made for us. We were husband and wife in all but name, and as soon as we found a priest in Zealand we would take care of that, too. I opened the door without knocking and walked in.

Rosalind lay in our bed, desolation plain on her face and in her mind. " _David, I need you_ …" She had reached the same conclusion, crossed the same line, and there was no need for either of us to speak of it now. I quickly stripped out of my black clothing and crawled in beside her. Making love was the farthest thing from our minds, we just desperately needed to hold each other…

* * *

The first thing I felt was Rosalind lying beside me, and a sense of her peaceful sleeping thoughts. We'd be waking up together most days from now on, some days like this, sometimes her watching me sleep. I chuckled to myself and wondered idly how long Michael had resisted before Rachel established herself in their room. My thoughts turned darker as I wondered what they'd done about the night's other events.

Rosalind and I hadn't quite cried ourselves to sleep last night, but close to it. She wouldn't let me keep the knowledge of how we'd found Sally and Katherine from her. We had both broken down before I got well started, but she wouldn't let me stop until we reached the end. She'd said it would be like pulling a splinter half-way out. I said it was no splinter, it was the whole damn tree. After learning what had been done to our friends, what they'd intended to do to Rachel, she'd been savagely pleased to hear of Skinner's demise, and that we'd wiped out the rest of his lackeys. She still didn't like killing in general, but there were exceptions, oh yes…

The first thing I saw was morning light pouring in through our window. I turned my head and saw Rosalind, looking as peaceful as she felt. I didn't want to move, but I didn't know what time it was, I felt hungry and thirsty, and I needed to visit the head. I didn't think I could get untangled from her without waking her, either. I tried to slip out of her arms, but she made a small sound and clung tighter. How should I go about waking her up?

"Rosalind," I called in both words and thought-shapes. She smiled a little. "Come, on, Rosalind, I have to get out of bed." That made her stir and mumble, so I kept on, "Rooosaliiinnnd, time to wake up…"

Some more prompting got her to open her eyes and smile at me, then lose her smile as memories returned. I stood, and gave her a hand up, and we put on our borrowed clothes from yesterday. We'd want to reclaim our own from the laundry later, and see about getting at least a few more changes of clothing somehow. None of us had any idea what the Fringes folk did with our possessions, so all of us but Rachel had come aboard literally with nothing but the clothes on our backs. Sally and Katherine, not even that. I wondered whether half-uncle Angus would eventually get his great-horses back. I insisted that Rosalind use the head first, and she told me I was being silly. "It's not a one-holer, David," she reminded me. I agreed that I was being silly, and asked her not to take too long.

We didn't get any response from Rachel or Michael, and Petra was just stirring when we checked on her. "H'lo, David, Rosalind, is it tomorrow?" We assured her that it was, and that we were on our way to Zealand. Her happy-thought was only a little dazzling, and she damped it down quickly. Rosalind helped her dress, also in her borrowed clothes from yesterday, while I looked out the window where the sun was still fairly low in the sky. We'd been up very late (or very early) but the habits of a lifetime growing up on a farm had woken me shortly after dawn anyway.

Rosalind took Petra into the head while I waited outside, then we led her to the food serving line and told her in words that we would join her for breakfast in a few minutes, careful not to send any thoughts around her. She wouldn't like our behind-thinks this morning.

The sick-bay was quiet when we walked in. Sally lay on the bed where we had left her, still asleep, now covered by a pale yellow blanket. Ladder-like railings had been added to the rather narrow bed's sides, to keep her from falling out of it. Beyond the empty bed beside hers, the curtain was still in place.

I heard footsteps, and looked up to see a woman in a long white coat approaching us. Everyone I'd seen in this place wore those coats, like it might be some kind of uniform. She had straight black hair and her face looked different from any other I'd seen, rounded, with oddly-shaped eyes. She introduced herself as Natsuko, the senior doctor on board. We asked her about Sally and Katherine.

" _As you can see, Sally's physical condition is not too serious. She was dehydrated, she hasn't eaten in at least two days, she's been beaten, and raped repeatedly, and she'll have some scarring around her wrists and ankles, but we expect her to recover from all that in a few weeks_." Her thoughts held overtones of sadness, distress and outrage. " _We can't even begin to assess her mental and emotional state at this time. She's still unconscious, she's been drugged, and we're still working on identifying the drugs. When she awakens, and when the drugs are flushed out of her system, we can make a start on that. We're hoping to know more by this afternoon_."

She looked at us for a long moment, clearly reluctant to go on. " _Katherine has been brutally beaten and tortured, and her wounds are infected. I'm sure it started with dirty…implements, and was exacerbated by unsanitary conditions, and exposure to flies. She also was raped multiple times_." Natsuko's sorrow and outrage were stronger now, but her thought-shapes were almost academic as she told us, " _Mutations don't happen only to the plants and animals you're familiar with. Micro-organisms mutate much more rapidly, and a number of exceedingly nasty infectious pathogens have cropped up over the past few millennia. We've isolated a few of them in Katherine, as well as more ordinary strains of bacteria. We're doing everything we can to fight them, but I'm very much afraid that we're losing_."

I couldn't bring myself to say the words, so it was Rosalind who asked, "Is Katherine going to die?"

Natsuko shook her head. " _I just don't know. We're not giving up, but…you should prepare yourselves for the possibility. You can see her for just a minute, if you want_."

We both nodded, and she led us through a gap in the curtain. Katherine's nose and mouth were covered by a clear cap, with a tube that looked like soft glass leading from it to some equipment behind her head. More tubes were fastened to her arms, attached to clear bags of liquid hanging from hooks above her. There was a clean white bandage wrapped around her head, but her eyes were still blackened and swelled. Her fingers had been straightened and strapped to silvery metal bars. At least her breathing sounded a little easier this morning. The blanket on her bed was held up above her legs by some sort of frame underneath it.

She certainly looked the part of a dying girl. Rosalind and I held each other but dared not share comfort mentally with Petra so near. I felt that we should stay with her, but saw that there was nothing we could do for her. As Gary had told me, it was all up to the doctors. I said, "Thank you, Doctor Natsuko. I know you're doing everything that can be done." Rosalind squeezed me and nodded.

I had conquered my dread of the plastic trays and we picked up pancakes, eggs, sausage and fried chopped potatoes in the breakfast line. Everybody was filling their glasses with an orange-colored drink so we got some, too. We found Petra sitting with four Zealanders who introduced themselves, but within a minute I had forgotten their names. Sally, Katherine…

We were just starting in, making up our minds about the soury-sweet orange drink when Michael called, " _Where are you?_ "

I answered, " _We're having breakfast, with Petra. Come join us_." I added, far too innocently, " _Is Rachel there?_ "

His thought-shapes got clumsy, and he fumbled with getting out, " _Uh, yeah, Rachel's…with me…_ "

Rosalind understood at once. " _Yes, both of you come join us for breakfast_."

A few minutes later, they did. Michael seemed a little nervous, but Rachel looked completely at ease in a dark green dress with a lighter green cross. They were both somber as they sat down across from us, but we didn't want to discuss the reasons for it in front of Petra. She'd be burdened with it all too soon.

Fortunately, she had taken a seat next to a window and the view outside had most of her attention. We were over water now, but looking back I could see the land the Old People had called Quebec in the distance, receding behind us. I'd picked up enough stray thoughts to know we were more than three hundred of those 'kilometers' from Waknuk, headed south-east at two thousand meters altitude, going far enough out to sea to avoid the Black Coasts I'd heard about from Uncle Axel. Later we'd turn south-south-west and follow the North American coast, staying more than three hundred kilometers away from the shoreline, or as I understood it, over two hundred miles. Uncle Axel had heard right, there really was something that blew on the wind from the Black Lands and Badlands, and the Zealanders wanted no part of it.

I was content to let the Zealanders deal with the matter, but Michael looked interested when I mentioned it. He'd be asking questions later, no doubt. That had pretty much exhausted our breakfast conversation until Rachel plucked at one arm of her cross. "I don't want to wear this any more. It's a lie." She looked at our concerned faces and said quickly, "Oh, I don't mean because I'm one of us. It's because everything it stood for was a lie. I heard what Helga told the Inspector, and I believe it."

Michael looked uncertain. "I just don't see how it would be possible…"

I believed it, though. "It fits what Uncle Axel told me. He said Tribulation was a thing of almighty power and abject foolishness at the same time. That God couldn't have done it unless He was insane."

Michael grunted. "We know people can be insane, but could even the Old People have done all of that, left the world so… _scarred_ , for such an incredibly long time?"

Rachel put her hand on his arm. "Maybe the Zealanders know more. We'll have to ask them. In the meantime, I need to borrow a knife or something to deal with this."

Rosalind said, "Gary told us there's a tailor shop on board, but it's closed because there's nobody to run it. I'm sure it would have everything you need."

"Really? That would be great," Rachel replied. She looked at one of the Zealander women and her skirt, which reached only half-way to her knees. "Maybe I can shorten it too. Not _that_ short, but I'm tired of these long skirts getting in my way."

That gave Rosalind a thought. "We both know how to sew. Maybe we could work in the tailor shop, until we get to Zealand. Give something back, so we're not just dead weight."

Rachel agreed that was a good idea, and they resolved to take it up with Yvonne when we saw her. Michael had already agreed to help Harvey with small jobs around the ship, leaving me the only one not pitching in. Maybe I could help in the scullery; washing dishes couldn't be that hard to figure out. We could show these Zealanders that we might be primitive, but we weren't freeloaders. Simple jobs would also help us learn to fit into their society.

It looked like Rosalind and I would wind up sort-of adopting Petra, with Aunt Rachel and Uncle Michael helping out. She gazed out the window through most of breakfast, so fascinated by the slowly changing scenery that we had to remind her to eat several times, making her giggle. We finished, dropped our trays off at the scullery window and took Petra to the aft lounge.

Few people were here at what I guessed from the sun was about seven-thirty, and Petra was immediately drawn back to the windows. A couple of people looked up, interested, and when we asked them if they could watch after Petra for fifteen minutes or so, they readily agreed. So preoccupied was she with the view, she didn't notice us leaving.

We returned to sick-bay. Sally slept on, but there were people behind Katherine's curtain again, talking in low, tense voices. I caught unfamiliar words — 'debride', 'toxins', 'necrosis' — and the ones I did know were so mixed up that I couldn't make sense of them. Irrigate? What did watering fields have to do with medicine?

We'd been standing around Sally's bed, Rosalind and I, Michael and Rachel holding each other, for a couple of minutes when a woman in her late twenties with reddish-brown hair and blue eyes, wearing the standard white coat, walked over and introduced herself as Janice, another doctor.

"You'll be wanting news about Katherine's condition, and I'm afraid I don't have any," she said apologetically. "We're still cleaning out the infections. Her legs are the worst, of course, but there are others…" She briefly put out a thought compounded of disgust, affront, and related emotions overlaid with a helpless anger. She fought it down. "Sorry, that doesn't help. It just… _burns_ me to see such things…"

"The ones that did it are dead," Michael announced with some satisfaction.

"I'm a doctor," she informed him disapprovingly. "You shouldn't tempt me to be glad somebody is dead. Although in this case…" She looked thoroughly miserable about every aspect of the situation. She went on, "They've both been raped, a dozen times or more. As if the torture and drugs weren't bad enough."

"God's work, they call it," Michael snarled. "But…drugs?"

"We're still analyzing them, but we have some preliminary answers," she told them. "One is a powerful stimulant that could almost wake up a three-day-old corpse, for a short time, anyway. It's roughly based on a drug the Old People called methamphetamine, but unrefined, loaded with impurities and with several other substances added. It's like they got hold of a medical textbook, looked up 'stimulants' and mixed together everything they could get their hands on."

Michael scowled. "That may be exactly what they did. I've heard rumours that the Government is keeping some of the Old People's books in secret; just a few random ones that have survived all this time by chance, but full of lost knowledge about things we can only guess at. Could be they've a medical book or two."

Janice bared her teeth. "And instead of using them to _help_ people, as they're meant to, they do this. There'd have been warnings about how dangerous those drugs are, and how using them together would make it worse, and they just ignored them. I'm sure that… _crud_ would cause irregular heartbeat, raise blood pressure to dangerous levels and risk heart attack, stroke, liver, kidney and lung damage…of course, they didn't care if their 'patients' lived or died, only that torturing an unconscious girl would be _ineffective_."

None of us could think of anything to say as she took a minute to settle herself. "Both girls have residues of the stimulant in their blood. I think it's why Sally is unconscious; that stuff sort of burns through the body's energy reserves until the person collapses. We're hoping she'll come out of it in a few more hours."

Michael wasn't satisfied. "Isn't there anything more you can do?"

Janice shook her head. "Her condition is stable, and I don't want to administer any more drugs while she's still recovering from that one. We've given her water, electrolytes and glucose and I'm hoping that will be enough. If she doesn't wake up within eight hours or so, I'll reconsider the question."

He looked unsatisfied, but let it go.

She almost forced herself to continue. "The other drug they used on Sally is like nothing I've ever seen before, a devil's brew of plant extracts, fungal alkaloids, insect secretions, stuff I haven't even begun to classify yet." She shook her head helplessly. "Even if I could identify every component, it wouldn't tell me much. I've no idea what effects most of them would have, and no ethical doctor would even _test_ most of that, that _shit_ on human patients."

She sighed heavily. "My best guess is, it would cause delirium, hallucinations, extreme confusion, loss of contact with reality, an inability to distinguish between what's real and what's not. In conjunction with the stimulant, it could cause a kind of uncontrolled babbling. I wouldn't consider it any sort of effective 'truth drug' but if someone were evil enough to keep shooting her up with it, over and over, and pick through the babble, they might get something useful out of it."

"Like a name or two," Michael grated out.

She nodded, unwillingly. The low-level hubbub around Katherine continued. I looked at Michael and saw his silent agreement that looking in on her would be useless. We would only distract the doctors and upset ourselves. We thanked Doctor Janice, she promised to let us know if anything changed, and we left sick-bay.

We were silent on our long walk back to the aft lounge. We joined Petra at the windows, and I saw that we were over land now. I couldn't tell whether it was Deviational or not; from this height it just looked green and lumpy. That didn't matter to us any more, I supposed. Petra asked questions, and between the four of us we came up with adequate answers for most of them.

After about ten minutes the land ended and we flew over water again. Petra sounded awed as she asked, "Is that the sea?"

I didn't have any idea, and Michael said, "I don't know, but I don't think so."

"No. It's the Gulf of Saint Lawrence," a new voice broke in. "At least, that's what the Old People called it."

We all turned towards the speaker, and she gave us a beautiful, somewhat eager smile. "My name's Sharon, and you're the people from Labrador. I've been waiting to meet you!" She looked to be in her twenties, with light brown hair and blue eyes, wearing a white blouse with blue trim and an almost knee-length blue skirt.

I recovered first. "I'm David Strorm—"

She was still smiling. "I know, you're David, Rosalind, Petra, Rachel and Michael. I know everything about you anybody on board does." Her smile turned a little ironic. "They're probably tired of me asking. I've got so many more questions…but I don't think you're wanting to answer a bunch of questions right now, with your friends still in sick-bay. How about if I start by answering some of yours?"

I was a little overwhelmed by her outpouring, and I think Rosalind was too, but Michael asked, "Who are you?"

"I'm a historian," she declared. "Our history, the Old People's history, anybody's history I can find. History makes us what we are, and I try to figure out how and why. Sometimes I do."

Petra's curiosity had recovered. "When will we get to the sea?"

Almost on top of her question, Rachel wanted to know, "Where are we now?"

Sharon joined us at the windows and pointed to the receding land. "We've just flown over the Ile d'Anticosti, or Anticosti Island, and we're headed south-east across the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. We're about two hundred and fifty kilometers from Cabot Strait, between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. We'll speed up when the sun gets a little higher, so we should get there in two and a half hours or so. When we get past Cabot Strait we'll be over the Atlantic Ocean." She smiled at Petra. " _That's_ the sea."

I said, "I've heard of Newf, but not all those other places."

"Those were the Old People's names for them," she explained. "Words and language drift with time unless they're written down, so your names for those places might be different. The way Wabush changed to Waknuk."

"So Newf should really be Newfoundland," Michael mused.

"That's what the Old People called it," she agreed. "Changes are not always wrong, though. Newf is much easier to say, and as long as everybody knows what you mean, does it really matter?"

Michael digested that and Petra asked, "What does the sea look like?"

"Oh, not much different," she said. "Water as far as the eye can see looks pretty much the same no matter where you are. The difference is how far it goes _beyond_ what you see. The Gulf of Saint Lawrence is about four hundred kilometers wide; we can cross it in less than three hours. The Atlantic Ocean is over six thousand kilometers; crossing that would take more than two days. It's all in the Atlas."

Michael was _very_ interested now. "You've seen that Atlas of the World Yvonne showed us?" he asked, fascinated.

"Well I should _hope_ so!" she laughed. "Where do you think she got it? When Yvonne came to me wanting to borrow the Atlas and some other books to plot her course for a long journey, I told her okay, but only if she borrowed me too! I couldn't resist the chance to go places we've never been, and see people we've never heard of. It's a shame we had to leave after only a few hours."

I was taken aback by her boundless enthusiasm for just about everything, but Michael growled, "A few hours of that place should be enough for anybody."

"Living in it _would_ be a kind of hell, especially for people like us," she admitted. "But how it got to be what it is…" She gazed off into the distance.

My thoughts returned to Sally and Katherine, and probably the others' did too. Even Petra was out of questions for the moment. We watched the island creep towards the horizon behind us as more rippled blue water took its place. I was still lost in my thoughts when I heard Yvonne's voice call, "Good morning." and turned to see her walking across the room. We all gave her rather distracted greetings as she joined us. Sensing our mood, she added, "I don't have any news about Sally and Katherine." We nodded somberly and thanked her.

We all looked out the windows for a minute more, then Rachel asked about the tailor shop, Rosalind spoke about her idea of them working in it, and Yvonne said that would be just fine. She wasn't exactly empowered to approve or disapprove their request, but she was sure no one would object. I mentioned helping out in the scullery and she said to check with the people working there, unless I got another idea about what I wanted to do.

Authority among the Zealanders was quite unlike anything I was used to. There was no one person who had overall command of the zeppelin, or of the expedition to pick up Petra, but a number of people with responsibility for different aspects of the ship's operation. Steven was the zeppelin's chief engineer, as well as its principal designer, and in anything to do with the ship's operation they went by his word. Not because they were forced to, but because they trusted him to know best. Helga had commanded our rescue mission because somebody had to, and all the people involved considered her the right choice. If she'd made a bad decision, they would have pointed it out to her, possibly refused to carry out her orders if they disagreed strongly enough.

I had one other thing to resolve, and although Yvonne might not be the one I needed to ask, I would start with her. I held Rosalind's hand and said, a little defiantly, "Rosalind is staying in _our_ room now."

"Oh?" Yvonne looked at us with slight surprise, then smiled. "Well, congratulations, you two." Michael, Rachel and Sharon looked at us too, with various expressions.

"That's…not a problem?" I asked with some concern.

She was still smiling. "Why would it be a problem?"

I was still concerned, and now puzzled, too. "We're not married."

She hadn't stopped smiling. "That doesn't matter, but…do you both want to be married?"

We nodded and told her we did.

She asked me, "Do you consider yourself her husband?"

I squeezed Rosalind's hand. "Yes. I do."

She turned to Rosalind. "And you, dear, do you consider yourself his wife?"

Rosalind smiled, also a little defiant. "Yes."

Yvonne's smile grew wider. "Then you're married. You might want to have some sort of party with your friends, to celebrate your marriage, but why should you require anybody's permission? Is there any other person who should have the right to decide whether you are, or are not, married?"

Now we were both confused. Rosalind said, "But…I don't understand."

Yvonne's smile got a little…aggressive. "That is because you were raised in a primitive repressive patriarchal society in which women are the property of men. Property of their fathers, until they are married; property of their husbands, after. But this is Zealand, where no person is the property of any other. The minute Rosalind Morton and David Strorm chose to be husband and wife, you were. The minute either of you choose not to be, you won't."

We were still confused. I asked, "One of us can just…leave the other?"

"Of course. Should any person be forced to enter into, or remain in, an unwanted marriage? Neither of you can hold the other against their will. People change, every day. A couple who were perfect for each other when they were twenty may be all wrong for each other when they're thirty. It's nobody's fault, so why should they be forced to make each other miserable?"

Rosalind was troubled. "What if there are children? What happens to them?"

Yvonne wasn't. "Parents who are honest and caring will find ways to take care of their children even if they're separated. If people are forced to stay together who no longer want to be, who will inevitably come to resent each other, even hate each other — how could you make children live in that kind of environment? What would that do to them, when they can _feel_ the discord, the animosity?"

Rosalind and I looked at each other, passing half-formed thoughts back and forth. What she said was sensible, but so new to us that we didn't know what to make of it yet. We'd need some time to adjust to such different ways of thinking.

Yvonne felt our confusion, and concluded, "In Zealand you will find no laws dictating to you who you are permitted to love, who you are required to love, or who you are forbidden to love. That is no one's concern but yours. You may love and marry whoever you wish, so long as they agree, and are mature enough to give consent."

That reminded me. Last night while we waited for the rescue mission, Helga had said something…

My thoughts must have leaked, because Yvonne laughed and said, "David, the answer to the question you're too bashful to ask is _yes_. Helga was joking about sharing you with Rosalind. She knows neither of you would be comfortable with that. Don't look so surprised; there _were_ other people in that room, and they all heard it too."

I was too shocked for either words or thought-shapes, but Rachel giggled. Yvonne must have made a good guess at what we were all thinking. "If you _were_ comfortable with the idea, and if you all wanted to, you wouldn't be violating any laws or rules in Zealand. You don't have to be limited to loving only one person. One man and one woman is the most common arrangement, but it's not the only one. If any two, or three, or six people love each other and want to be together, why should anybody else be allowed to deny them their happiness? What business is it of theirs anyway?"

I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. Such ideas would be unspeakable in Waknuk, practically unthinkable! Rosalind, Michael and Rachel looked equally disbelieving, but Sharon was watching us with some interest. Thank God Petra was too young for any of it to mean much to her.

Yvonne took in our expressions and gave her head a kind of what-can-you-do shake. " _What use is pretense, to our kind of people? We speak our thoughts. We can only lie to others by first lying to ourselves. Norms do both with depressing regularity, but we can always see through each other's lies. It keeps us far more honest, with each other and with ourselves. It keeps us much saner than Norms. It's why we hope to build a better world than they ever could_."

Most of that had, thankfully, gone over Petra's head, but she'd caught one important part. "Are you and Rosalind really married?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"I guess we are," I told her, still a little off-balance. "She's your big sister now, and we're both going to take care of you." Rosalind's hand was warm and comforting in mine.

She smiled down at Petra. "Good morning, Little Sister."

Petra threw her arms around her new sister-in-law's waist. "G'Morning, Bis Sis!" Rosalind returned her hug as the others congratulated us.

After a minute of so of that Rachel said, "Michael and I are staying in the same room, too. I don't think one of us is quite ready to be married, though."

The rest of us chuckled at that while Michael looked uncomfortable. Yvonne said, "If both of you are content, no one else has any grounds for complaint."

Our amusement quickly turned back to worry about Sally and Katherine, and frustration that there was nothing we could do but wait. A few minutes of that was enough. Yvonne had things to do. Rachel went to get the clothes she'd brought aboard. Rosalind kissed me, took Petra's hand and headed for the tailor shop. Michael called Harvey, then left to help him with a few things around the ship. I took one last look at What-was-its-name Island, now a thin green strip on the horizon, and headed forward via the starboard passageway. I had never walked the length of it before, but except for having odd-numbered doors on my right instead of even-numbered doors on my left, it was just like the port side.

The wide meal-room was nearly empty, and brightly lit by the morning sun. Nobody was serving food, but there were some sandwiches and a tray of assorted fruit set out under clear covers. More plastic, I suspected. There was a man cleaning something inside the scullery, and he directed me around to the door. I opened it to find a room filled with gleaming metal and white objects that made little sense to me. I held out my hand. "Hi, I'm David Strorm."

He shook it. "I know. You're one of those folks we picked up from Labrador yesterday." I was getting used to the Zealanders' odd way of pronouncing words. "Name's Justin. Last name's O'Donnell, but we hardly ever use last names."

That made sense. We were much more aware of each other's identities than Norms could ever be and often didn't use names at all. After discovering ourselves we had gone years without even bothering to find out each other's word-names, until one of us mysteriously vanished.

I took a better look around and saw one recognizable sink in the corner, but nothing else I understood. I said plaintively, "I thought at least, washing dishes couldn't be too complicated. Rosalind was right. We won't know how to do _anything_ in Zealand."

Justin chuckled at me. " _Don't be so hard on yourself. We're born knowing nothing at all, so we all have to learn everything just the same. We've got a bit of a head start on you, that's all_."

"Awful _big_ head start, it looks like," I grumbled. "You'll have to send us to school with kids Petra's age, and we'll be behind _them!_ "

" _It won't be so bad_ ," he reassured me. " _We take in people from other places all the time. As long as you're willing to learn, and un-learn the things you've been taught that are wrong, you'll be all right. Let me show you what we do here, and you'll see_."

He seemed to already know why I was there. Yvonne had probably told him to watch for me. There would be a lot of little things to get used to, in addition to the big things.

He waved his hand at the equipment that had me so mystified. " _People have much better things to do than wash dishes by hand, one by one. We have these machines, that wash them in large batches. We give them a quick rinse with spent wash water there_ ," he pointed to the sink, next to the window where people handed in their trays and dishes, " _load them into racks and slide them into the washer_." He pointed to a shiny metal box about two feet square, a foot and a half high. " _It sprays them with hot water and detergent at high pressure. Another advantage of using machines to wash dishes is we can use much hotter water. We run the wash cycle at eighty-five degrees, which would practically strip the skin off your hands_."

I was confused. "Eighty-five degrees is just barely warm. Do you mean a hundred and eighty-five?"

Now Justin was confused. " _Eighty-five degrees is hot enough to— oh, wait a minute. You're using that old temperature scale, what did they call it?_ " He thought for a few seconds. " _I don't remember. Anyway, we use centigrade. Water freezes at zero, and boils at a hundred degrees. Eighty-five is close to boiling_."

I shook my head stoically. The Zealanders had different ways of measuring distance, and weight; of _course_ they had a different way to measure temperature. Yet Another Thing we would have to learn…

He went on explaining how they moved the dish racks along through wash, pre-rinse, rinse and second rinse, how the water was transferred in the opposite direction until it wound up in the wash box, and finally the sink. The zeppelin could only carry a limited amount of water, so they had to make the most of it. Justin bragged that they could wash an entire meal's worth of trays, dishes, glasses, silverware, and pans using less than thirty 'liters' of water. Liters, now. I only groaned inwardly.

He told me how the dishes should be loaded so they would all be cleaned, and not get knocked around by the water sprays. So many more new ideas, yet they all made sense once he explained them. I also learned that Justin hadn't been brought along to wash dishes; he was an engine mechanic, but with little to do unless something went wrong with them. Somebody had to do this, so a number of people rotated the job between them. My help would be much appreciated.

" _It's a pretty easy job_ ," he told me. " _Two people can get all the dishes from a meal done in less than an hour, so along with cleaning up the scullery it takes around four hours a day_."

Justin had started telling me about the engines when Rosalind gave me an update on their dress project. " _They've got a machine that sews twenty times faster than any seamstress. We're both going to learn to use it, but not today_." They'd stuck to sewing by hand, and had almost finished with two of Rachel's dresses. She'd brought five aboard after losing the one to Skinner's thugs, along with three shifts, and wanted to give one dress to each of the others, except Petra. We all agreed that cutting one down for her would be a lot of work, and wasteful.

I took my leave of Justin, met them at the tailor shop, and leaned against the door-frame until they finished. I felt anxious and restless, but nothing I could think of doing held any appeal. It was hard to think of anything except…the waiting. Even Petra had caught our mood, and was a little withdrawn. Presently they finished, shooed me away and closed the door.

When they opened it, Rachel had on her blue dress from last night's rescue, and Rosalind wore a dark red one. She was a little taller than Rachel, and a little slimmer, but the dress fit her well enough. Both dresses had been hemmed a few inches below their knees and the crosses were gone, leaving behind only slight color variations to mark their passing.

I knew what I needed to do now. "You look nice, Rosalind. You too, Rachel."

Rachel nodded, and Rosalind said, "Thank you, David. I think it's going to take a little getting used to." Both of them gave me rather strained smiles.

We exchanged a few idle words while they put everything away and shut the door, then drifted back to the aft lounge. There was nothing to be seen but an endless expanse of water under a few puffy clouds. Petra stood at the windows as Rosalind and I took seats, slipping arms around each other as we settled in to wait some more.

* * *

Katherine died a little after ten o'clock.

I could feel it in Doctor Janice's thoughts as she asked us to come to sick-bay, so we left Petra in the lounge. We stood around the bed, Rosalind and I holding each other and sobbing, Rachel bawling in Michael's arms, he looking grim and worn, Yvonne watching us helplessly. Katherine's _presence_ was gone, and her body looked somehow shrunken from when I had seen her just hours ago.

"I'm sorry," the doctor said in words. "We did our best, but we couldn't help her." Her voice was choked, and there were tears in her eyes as her thoughts went on, " _I don't think the Old People, with all their knowledge and all their wonder-drugs, could have helped her. The infections were already too advanced, and they had gone systemic, spreading throughout her body in her bloodstream. Her immune system was overwhelmed, and there was no way to stop it_." She shook her head. " _She never regained consciousness_."

Michael ground out, "I suppose…that was a mercy…" and we nodded, mutely. Guilt forced him to go on, "What if we'd been sooner?"

She shook her head. " _A few hours wouldn't have made any difference. A day sooner, maybe. If she'd been brought here, to our sick-bay, two days earlier, I'd say her chances would have been good. But we were still six thousand kilometers away then. It was already far too late when we got there_."

Yvonne looked at us sternly. " _Nothing_ about Katherine's death is your fault. I know you can't help feeling guilty about it, but there was nothing more any of us could have done. Saving her life was already beyond our ability, when we reached Labrador."

Doctor Janice nodded agreement. " _It's not in our nature to give up, but…we feared that it was a losing battle from the beginning. We do not hold the power of life and death; we are no more gods than the Old People were. All our efforts prolonged her life by no more than an hour or two. Maybe, we eased her passing a little_."

After a long moment Michael murmured, "At least she didn't die in that place, surrounded by enemies."

Yvonne blinked back her own tears. "You have lost another part of yourselves. I am truly sorry for that, and sorrier still that all I can offer you are useless, empty words. I can only share your pain; I can't do anything to ease it. If there's anything I _can_ do, you need only ask."

Rosalind raised her head, sniffled and said, "We have to tell Petra." I nodded reluctantly.

Yvonne sent out a somber thought, " _Gary, would you please bring Petra to sick-bay?_ "

Rosalind and I met them at the doors. Petra had picked up our mood, and looked round-eyed and serious even before I spoke. "Petra, I have to tell you…Katherine died a little while ago. The doctors did their best, but they…they couldn't…" I was unable to go on, in words or thought-shapes. I had tried, and failed, to think of a better way to tell her. Maybe there wasn't one.

Her face twisted, she threw her arms around me and clung tight, crying. I held her close and cried with her. After a minute her hand reached out blindly, and Rosalind added herself to our embrace. None of us could form coherent thoughts, so we were reduced to a sort of mental wail of bereavement. I felt Michael and Rachel join our lament. Fortunately, Petra had hardly known Katherine, so her distress wasn't the overpowering weight it could have been. The others withdrew, granting us a small space of quiet and privacy.

Even our grief had limits. We came back to ourselves and gathered around Katherine's bed with Doctor Janice and Yvonne, wondering what to do now. Gary joined us, with his mind closed up again. He brushed his fingertips across poor Katherine's cheek and whispered, "I'm sorry, little girl." He stood there for another few seconds, then turned and walked to Sally's bedside. He touched her hand and said softly, "Please wake up, Sally. You're safe now. Your friends are worried about you." We watched hopefully, but she slept on.

Doctor Janice spoke reluctantly. "This leaves us with…Katherine's body. I don't see any point to an autopsy, so what do you want to do?"

We looked at each other uncertainly, and Michael said, "I don't know. We can't bury her, or leave her here…"

Yvonne said thoughtfully, "We're over the Atlantic Ocean now. The Old People used to perform 'burials at sea', ceremonially dropping bodies into the water. She'd be returned to the great cycle of life and death. What do you think?"

"Katherine would have loved to see the ocean…" Rosalind murmured.

"It's probably the best we can do for her," I agreed. Rachel nodded.

"How would we do it?" Michael asked. "I know she's not here any more, but just chucking her body overboard wouldn't be right."

Gary said quietly, "I know what to do. I wish I could have done more, but I can help you with this."

* * *

We gathered at the starboard lift; Rachel, Yvonne, Gary, Petra, Helga, and Rosalind, with Michael and I carrying Katherine's body on a stretcher, this time completely covered by the black blanket. Gary directed us to set it in the center, with her feet towards the doors. We all got in around it, Helga and Gary shut the doors, someone gave a signal, and we were lowered away.

The zeppelin had descended to twenty-five meters, and slowed to just 'steerage way' of ten kilometers per hour, or about six miles per hour according to Gary. The doors opened on a brilliant sunny day. The sea rose almost to the bottom of the lift in waves about two feet high and a clean fresh breeze blew in and around us. We stood for long minutes, sharing Katherine's memory, the feel of her thought-shapes, our joy in knowing her, our sorrow at losing her. We all knew when it was time.

Gary swallowed painfully. "Farewell, Katherine. We hope your spirit finds peace, as we commit your body to the deep." He nodded to us and we raised the end of the stretcher, holding the blanket in place the way he had shown us. Her body slid out and splashed into the clear water, slowly sinking out of sight. We leaned the stretcher against a wall, and wiped our eyes with everybody else.

Rosalind put her arms around me, Rachel comforted Michael, Yvonne held Petra, and Helga and Gary clung to each other. We all looked out across the sea, sending our last good-byes after Katherine. Again, we knew when it was time. Gary and Helga closed the doors. We felt the lift rise, watching the endless expanse of blue water drop away around us.

The sea would always remind me of Katherine.


End file.
